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Copyright, iS8., 1000, by Harper & Brothlrs. 
All rights reserved. 

Two Copies Received 

APR 2 1«09 

- Copynn^l Entry 
CLASS «^ )tXc. No, 

2-51 "i"^^ 

COPY li. 

6/f ? 


Poets have multiplied during the present century as at no previous period. Never 
was the accomplishment of verse so general as now. "Weren't we in the luck of it," 
said Scott to Moore, "to have come before all this talent was at work?" If the remark 
was apt in their dav, how much more so is it at the present time ! Works in verse, 
tliat M'ould have made a reputation a century ago, fall now almost unnoticed from the 
press. It is hard for the most diligent critic to keep pace with the fertility of our 
poets. The present compiler had despaired of doing this long before he had .proceeded 
far in his labors. The consequence is that there liave been omissions for which no 
better reason can bo given than that they were unavoidable. An apology under such 
circumstances would bo out of place. 

It cannot be overlooked, too, that much of the best poetry of recent times has been 
.the product of feminine genius. The progress of women in enlarging the sphere of 
tfieir occupations, and competing with the employments of the stronger sex, is repre- 
sented in no department of intellectual work more signally than in verse. Ever}- 
month new poetry, far above mediocrity, if not of really superior quality, is sent forth. 

This is a sign to be welcomed. True poetry, like the religious prompting itself, 
springs from the emotional side of man's complex nature, and is ever in harmony with 
his highest intuitions and aspirations. It cannot be poetry if it conflict with these. 
Its cultivation, therefore, apart from all calculations of profit or of reputation — since few 
can now realize their dream of fame — must always be an elevating pursuit. There are 
some great truths for the expression of which the speculative understanding is less 
fitted than that which is the issue of right feelings and noble impulses. That poets 
have not always practised what they have preached, only shows how hard it is for a 
man to act up to his best ideals. 

It is profoundly true that poetry is to be found nowhere, unless we liave it within 
us. Here, as throughout all nature and all art, we receive but what we give. And 
so it is that great poets like Goethe — of whom it was said that his praise of some 
of the younger poets of his day was " a brevet of mediocrity " — often detect in what 


may strike an inferior judge as commonplace, sometliing to which the broad poetical 
nature may respond. 

In poetry, as in other forms of art, tastes must differ widely, not only among dif- 
ferent persons, but among the same persons at different periods of their lives. The 
youth, in whose estimate the verse of Byron once had the highest place, often finds 
liimself, as he grows older, transferring his affections to Coleridge or Wordsworth. 
Then, too, it frequently happens that our fondness for a certain j^oeni may lie uncon- 
sciously in some early association with it, or in the fact that it was admired by some 
one near and dear to us. "We shut our eyes to minor flaws, and are "pleased we know 
not why and care not wherefore," — wholly regardless of the critic's shrug or even the 
grammarian's objection. All, then, that the compiler can do is, while admitting largely 
what he may regard as best and highest, to remember still that in the exercise of his 
individual taste he must not arbitrarily rule out the representation of any legitimate 
style or topic. Some of our best humorous poems, like Thackeray's " Ballad of Bouilla- 
baisse," have in them an element of pathos M'hicli redeems their character as poetry. 

There are many minor poets who, by some felicity of subject or of treatment, 
have produced one successful piece, but never repeated the achievement. Like the 
boy who shot an arrow through a ring, but would not make a second trial lest he 
should fail, they have been constrained to rest their fame on the one little waif by 
which they have been made known. This class, and such anonymous writers as have 
produced pieces that the world does not allow to become obsolete, are largely repre- 
sented in the present volume; and our Index of First Lines will be found a conven- 
ient concordance for the discovery of many a poem which everybody remembers, but 
few know where to find. 

In the introductor}' notices of poets, in reference to the most distinguished, the aim 
has been to condense, or to sum up briefly, the most interesting incidents of their lives, 
and the choicest characteristics of their writings. In doing this, occasional forms of 
expression, not designated by quotation-marks, have been adopted, with alteration or 
abridgment, from biographer or critic; but credit has been given in cases of any im- 
portance. Original matter has been largely introduced; but, inasmuch as the license 
of a compiler has been used to enrich the work with all that is most apt in the way 
of facts and of criticism, whether new or old, no pretensions to nniform originality in 
these respects are made. t^ o 

'■ • LpES bAEGENT. 

Boston, Dreemher, 1880. 


The concluding pages of this volume were put in type only a few days before 
the genial and cultured editor passed away from the scene of his labors. It was the 
crowning work of a life devoted to literature. Projected several years ago, it en- 
grossed Mr. Sargent's thoughts and time almost to the very last day of his life, and 
every page passed under his careful supervision. Although lie did not live to see it 
published, he had the pleasure of putting the final touches to it, and of knowing that 
his work was finished. 

Mr. Sargent was eminently fitted for the preparation of a work of this kind. Few 
men possessed a wider or more profound knowledge of English literature, and liis 
judgment was clear, acute, and discriminating. lie designed tliis volume especially for 
household use; and he could have desired no kindlier remembrance than that associ- 
ated with the innocent pleasure and refining influence it will carry to many a domestic 


Harper it BKOTnj:Rs. 
Franklin Square, New York, 
Febnmry 22, 1881.' 

iin^de:x of ^xjthohs, 


Adams, John Quincy. r*GE 

To a Beicaved Mother 535 

Adams, Sarah Flower. 

Nuaier, my God, to Thee 608 

The World may Change (from Schiller) 609 

Thy Will, not Miue OOa 

Addison, Joseph. 

Hymn 137 

Ode from the Nineteenth Psalm 1-8 

Paraphrase on Psalm sxiii 128 

Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul. 139 
Ode : How are Thy Servants Blest 139 

Aiken, Berkeley. 
Uncrowned Kings 553 

Ainslie, Hew. 

Sighings for the Sea-side 441 

The Ingle-side 443 

Aird, Marion Paul. 
Far, Far Away 733 

Aird, Thomas. 
The Swallow 580 

Akeuside, Mark. 

The Soul's Tendencies to the Infinite 186 

The High-born Soul 187 

Mind, the Fount of Beauty 187 

The Ascent of Being 187 

Through Nature up to Nature's God 188 

Akin, Mary Elizabeth. 
Psalm cxxxvii .568 

Alden, Henry M. 
The Ancient " Lady of Sorrow" 881 

Aldrich, James. 

A Death-bed 691 

To One Far Away 691 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 

Lines on Brownell 773 

Piscataqua River 867 

Before the Rain 868 

After the Rain 868 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. page 

Unsung 868 

Sounet 868 

Alexander, Mrs. Cecil Frances. 
The Burial of Moses 836 

Alexander, Joseph Addison. 
The Power of Short Words 667 

Alexander, William. 

Waves and Leaves 797 

Jacob's Ladder 797 

Alford, Henry. 
A Memory 693 

Alison, Richard. 

Hope 32 

Cherry-ripe 22 

Allen, Elizabeth Akers. 

RocU Me to Sleep 8.50 

Till Death 8.50 

Allingham, William. 

Sing 825 

The Touchstone 835 

Autumnal Sounet 835 

Allston, Washington. 

Sonnet on Coleridge 350 

America to Great Britain 3.50 

Anonymous and Miscellaneous Poems of the 
15th and 16th Centuries. 

Chevy Chase 63 

Sir Patrick Spens 65 

Give Place, Tou Ladyes All 66 

Tak' Your Auld Cloak About Ye 67 

The Heir of Linne 68 

The Nut-brown Maide 71 

Sir John Barleycorn 75 

Truth's Integrity 75 

The Twa Sisters o' Binnorie 76 

Dowie Dens o' Yarrow 78 

Robin Hood's Rescue of Will Stutly 79 

Begone, Dull Care 80 

Man's Mortality, by Simon Wastell 81 

Robin Hood and Allin-a-Dale 81 


Anonymous and Miscellaneous— Cunfi'nHfd. page 

^Vul y, Willy S3 

Edward '. . . . 83 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long 83 

True Loveliuess 84 

Lines by One in the Tower, by Cliidiock Tychbom 84 

Honnie George Campbell 84 

Silent Music, by Tlioraas Cumptou 85 

Tlie Jleavenly Jerusalem 85 

Helen of Kirk(*BueU 86 

Anonymous and Miscellaneous Poems of the 
■17th and 18th Centuries. 

The Lincolniliire Poaeher 

The Twa Corbies 

Still Water, by Thomas D'Urley 

The Jovial Beggars, by Richard Brome 

Harvest-home Song 

Time's Cure 

" When Shall We Three Meet Again ?" 

God Save the King 


Why Should We Quarrel for Riches 

The Fairy Queene 

The Maiden's Choice, by Henry Fielding 

The White Rose 

From Merciless Invaders 

Willie's Visit to Melville Castle 

Our Gude-man 

Jock o' Hazelgreen 

Love Not Me for Comely Grace 

How Stands the Glass Around ? 

Ye Gentlemen of England 

Annie Laurie, by Douglas of Fingland 

The Soldier's Glee 

England's Vote for a Free Election 

Anonymous and Miscellaneous Poems of the 

18th and 19th Centuries. 

Merry May tlie Keel Row 

Oh Saw Ye the Lass ? 

The Pauper's Drive, by Thomas Noel 

Sonnet: December Morning, by Anna Seward... 

Song of Birth 

Song of Death 

Young Airly 

Love's Remonstrance, by James Kenney 

Sonnet ; Comparison 

The Crocus's Soliloquy, by Miss H. F. Gould 

The Managing Mamma 

A Riddle on the Letter H, by Miss Catherine M. 


Sweet Tyrant, Love, by James Thomson 

The End of the Drought 

Three Kisses of rarcwell 

The Sailor's Consolation, by William Pitt 

Where is He ':' by Henry Xrele 

Heaving of the Lead 

Coming Through the Rye 

Oh ! Say Not Woman's Heart is Bought, by 

Thomas Love Peacock 

Love and Age, by Thomas Love Peacock 

Go, Sit by the Summer Sea 





Anonymous and Miscellaneous— Condniierf. page 
To a Bereaved Mother, by John Quincy Adams.. 535 

Again 535 

Never Despair 536 

My Philosophy 536 

Progress 536 

Reliqui* 537 

Faith 537 

Genius 537 

Deirdre's Farewell to Alba 538 

The Mystery of Life, by John Gambold 538 

Fame (from the German of Schiller) 539 

The Clown's Song 539 

The Song of the Forge 540 

Sunrise Comes To-morrow 540 

Where Are Ye ? 541 

Come, Sunshine, Come ! (from the French of 

Charles Vincent) 543 

When the Grass Shall Cover Me 543 

Battle Hymn and Farewell to Life (from the Ger- 
man of Theodore Korner) .542 

The Going of My Bride 543 

Erin, by Dr. Willinra Drennan 543 

The Swans of Wilton 544 

Hymn to the Stars 544 

Summer Days 545 

With a Rose in Her Hair 545 

A Huudrcd Years to Come, by William G. Brown. 546 

Lines on a Skeleton ' 546 

Sonnet: The Seen and the Unseen 546 

Thou Wilt Never Grow Old, by Mrs. Howarth... &t7 

Happiest Days 547 

I Am the Lord ; I Change Not, by Arrali Leigh.' .547 

Invocation of Earth to Morning 548 

Ode to Washington, by Mrs. A. B. Stockton .549 

Requiescam, by Mrs. Robert S. Howland 549 

The Departed Good, by Isaac Williams 549 

A Spring Song, by Edward Youl 550 

My Treasures 550 

"I Would Not Live Alway," by Rev. William 

Augustus Muhlenberg 5.51 

The Beautiful, by E. H. Burrington 551 

The Joy of Incompleteness 552 

Uncrowned Kings, by Berkeley Aiken 553 

Wonderland, by Cradoek Newton 5.52 

Alischicvous Woman, by "The Ettrick Sliepherd." 5.53 
The Water-drinker, by Edward Johnson, M.D. .. 553 

Glenlogie 554 

The Place to Die,'by Michael Joseph Barry 554 

To My Wife, by William Smith 555 

Love and Absence, by James Ashcroft Noble 5.55 

Dreams 5.55 

Epigram, by S. T. Coleridge .5.55 

The First Spring Day, by John Todhunter .5.56 

Unbelief 556 

On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman Who Died 

Suddenly, by William Cartwriglit 556 

The Way, by William S. Shurtleff 556 

Anster, John. 

The Fairy Child 442 

The Days of Youth (from Goethe) 442 

The Soul of Eloquence (from Goethe) 443 


Armstrong, Edmund. 
From Darkness to Light , 

Arnold, Edwin. 

After Deatli in Arabia 

A Ma Future 


. 913 

Arnold, George. 

In the Dark 

Cui Bono ? 

A Summer Longius . 

Arnold, Mattheiv. 

Lines on Byron 


A Wish 

Dr. Arnold 

Austerity of Poetry. . 







Askew, Anne. 

From "The Figlit of Faith". 

Aubanel, Theodore. 
Tliirteen (translated by Miss Harriet W. Preston). 

Austin, Arthur Williams. 
From " The Greek Anthology " 

Austin, Mrs. Sarah. 
The Passage (from the German of Uhland) . 

Ayton, Sir Robert. 
On Woman's Inconstancy 

Aytoun, "William Edmondstoune. 
The Old Scottish Cavalier 

Bailey, Philip James. 
Love, the End of Created Being. 
Thoughts from "Festus" 

Ballantine, James. 
Its Ain Drap o' Dew. 

Baillie, Joanna. 

To a Child 


Ballou, Maturin M. 

Banim, John. 

Soggarth Aroon 

From "Damon and Pythias," Act V. 

Barbauld, Anna Letitia. 

Lines written at the Age of Eighty-three Years 

Wliat do the Futures Speak of ? 

The Death of the Virtuous 

The L^uknown God 

For Easter Sunday 











Barbour, John. 



. 3 

Barham, Richard Harris. 

The Jackdaw of Rheims 405 

Song 407 

Barker, David. 

The Covered Bridge ! 743 

The Under Dog in the Fight «.- 743 

Barker, James Nelson. 
Little Red Riding-IIood 373 

Barlow, Joel. 
From "The Hasty Pudding" ^6 

Barnard, Lady Anne. 
Auld Robin Gray 336 

Barnes, William. 

Plorata Veris Lachrymis 673 

Sonnet : Rural Nature 673 

Barr, Mary A. 

White Poppies 939 

Out of tlie Deep 939 

A Harvest-homo 939 

Barr, Matthias. 

God's Flowers 848 

Only a Baby Small 848 

Barry, Michael Joseph. 
The Place to Die 554 

Barton, Bernard. 

To a Grandmother 368 

Farewell 369 

A Winter Niglit 369 

Bates, Charlotte Fiske. 

Satislied 923 

After reading Longfellow's "Morituri Salutamns." 923 

Woodbines in October 923 

Evil Thought 933 

The Power of Music 923 

Sonnet : To C. F 923 

Tlie Telephone 934 

Hopes and Memories 924 

Baxter, Richard. 
Thy Will Be Done. 


Bayly, Thomas Haynes. 

The Soldier's Tear 501 

I'd be a Butterfly 503 

She Wore a Wreath of Roses 503 

The Premature White Hat 503 

Beattie, James. 

Nature and Her Votary 218 

Life and Immortality 219 


Beattie, James. 1'*°= 

Moruiug Melodies 219 

Arraigameut of Providence 320 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Mchmclioly 46 

Coesar's Lamentation ovei- Pompey's Head 40 

Song from " Valentinian " 47 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey, by Francis 

Beaumont 47 

Invocation to Sleep 47 

Song from " Rollo, Dulie of Normandy " 47 

From "The Humorous Lieutenant" 47 

From "Tlie Maid's Tragedy" 4« 

From " The Custom of the Country " 48 

Beddoes, Thomas Lovell. 

To Sea ! 

Beers, Mrs. Ethel Lynn. 
The Piclietguard 

Beers, Henry Augustin. 



Bell, Henry Glassford. 

From "Tlie End" 


Bello, Emilio (Spanish\ 
Meeting (translated by Mrs. Conant). 

Bennett, William Cox. 

A May-day Song 

A Thought 






Beranger, Pierre Jean de (French). 
Popular Recollections of Bonaparte (translated by 
Francis Mahony) 599 

Berkeley, George. 
Verses on the Prospect of Planting Arts and 
Learning in America 139 

Bethune, George Washington. 

It is not Death to Die 610 

Sonnet, introducing " Lays," etc 610 

Blackie, John Stuart. 

The Hope of the Heterodox 

Beautiful World 

To the Memory of Sydney Dobell. 

Blair, Robert. 
Death of the Strong Man 

Blake, William. 


The Tiger 

On Another's Sorrow 

Introduction to "Songs of innocence' 




Blamire, Susanna. p-»ce 

The Siller Croun 233 

Blanchard, Laman. 

The Eloquent Pastor Dead 581 

The Bird-catcher .583 

Souuet : Hidden Joys 583 

Sonnet : Wishes of Youth 582 

Blood, Henry Ames. 

Pro Mortuis 897 

The Last Visitor 897 

Bloomfield, Robert. 
The Soldier's Home 271 

Boker, George Henry. 
Dirge for a Soldier 


Bonar, Horatius. 

How to Live 650 

The Inner Calm 6.50 

Botta, Mrs. Anne (Lynch). 

Love Wins Love 770 

In the AdirondacliS 770 

The Lesson of the Bee 770 

Bourdillon, Francis W. 





The Home of My Heart 938 

The Difference 938 

Let us Love 938 

Bowles, William Lisle. 

1 he Touch of Time 3()5 

The Bells of Ostend 365 

Sonnet : October, 1792 265 

Sonnet : On the River Rhine 265 

Bowring, Edgar Alfred. 

What Songs are Like (from Goethe) 818 

Youth and Age (from Goethe, ^t. 77) 818 

Bowring, John. 

Ode to God (from the Russian of Gabriel Romano- 
witch Derzluwin) 439 

Wisdom and Wealth (from the Russian of Khem- 

nitzcr) 440 

True Courage 440 

Brainard, John Gardiner Caulkins. 

The Sea-bird's Song 4l>4 

Stanzas 484 

To the Daughter of a Friend 4a5 

The Falls of Niagara 485 

Brome, Richard. 

The Jovial Beggars 1.57 

Bronte, Anne. 

If This Be All 744 


Bronte, Charlotte. 

From '• Tlie Teacher's Moiiolos'iie ". 

Bronte, Emily. 
From "Anticipation'' 
.V Death Scene 

Brooks, Charles Timothy. 

Such is Life 

Tlie Two Grenatliei's (from the German of Heine). 

Brooks, James Gordon. 





Brooks, Mrs. James Gordon. 
Psalm cxx.xvii 

Brooks, Maria (Gowen\ 

Lilies to Soutlicy 

Son;; of E"la 

Brown, Frances. 

Brown, 'William Goldsmith. 
A Hundred Years to Come... 

Browne, Sir Thomas. 
The Night is Come 

Browne, 'William. 
.Shall I tell Yuii whom I Lovi 
The Siren's Son"; 

Brownell, Henry Howard. 

.\t Sea : A Fiagmeiit 

From "The Bay Fi<;ht" 

The Burial of the Dane 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. 
Sonnet : Cheerfulness Taught by Reason . 

Cowper's Grave 

The Sleep 

A Woman's Question 

Souuet : Futurity 

Sonnet : Insufficiency 

Four Sonnets from the Portuarnese 







t to 


Brow^ning, Robert. 
How they Brought the Good News from Ghent. 

The Freuch at Ratisbon 

Meeting at Night 

Evelyn Hope 

Lines on Alfred Domett 


Bruce, Michael. 
Fioni ail "EUsry Written in Spring 

Bryant, John Howard. 

The Valley Brook 

The Little Cloud 

Sonnet : Autumn 



Bryant, 'William Cullen. pace 

November : a Sonnet 463 

The Antiquity of Freedom 463 

Tlianatopsis 464 

Summer Wind 465 

The Future Life 465 

Meeting of Hector aud Achilles 4<i6 

The Battle-field 466 

From "An Evening Reverie" 467 

To the Fringed Gentian 467 

Song: Dost Thou Idly Ask to Hear? 467 

The Return of Youth 468 

To the Rev. John Pierpout 468 

Brydges, Sir Egerton. 

Echo and Silence 264 

Tlic Approach of Cold Weather 364 

Written at Paris, May 11, 1826 364 

Written at Lee Priory, August 10, 1836 264 

Buchanan, Robert. 

Dying 907 

Herniione ; or. Differences Adjusted 907 

Laiiglcy Lane 908 

To Triflcrs 909 

Buckingham, Duke of (see VilliersV 

Burbidge, Thomas. 

Sonnet 747 

Eventide 748 

Burleigh, William Henry. 

The Harvest-call 705 

Sonnet : Rain 705 

Solitude 705 

Burns, Robert. 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 3.53 

A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent Anguish. 2.56 

Epistle to a Young Friend, May, 1786 2.56 

Bannockburn 3.57 

To a Mountain Daisy 257 

For A' That and A' That 258 

Highland Mary 268 

Bonnie Lesley 3.59 

Auld Lang Syne 2.59 

To Mary in Heaven 2.59 

Ac Fond Kiss 360 

John Anderson My Jo 360 

Duncan Gray 360 

Somebody . : 361 

A Red, Red Rose 361 

The Banks o' Doon 361 

Afton Water 361 

Burrington, E. H. 
The Beautiful 551 

Burroughs, John. 
Waiting 872 

Butler, Samuel. 

The Learning of Hudibras 104 

From " Miscellaneous Thoughts " 104 



Butler, William Allen. p^ce 

Notliing to Wcai- 799 

Byrom, John. 

My Spirit Longeth for Thcc 153 

An Epigram on tlie Blessedness of Divine Love. 153 

St. Philip Neri and tlie Youlli 1.53 

Jacobite Toast 154 

Byron, Lord. 

Lines on George Croly 359 

Lines on Henry Kirke Wliite 377 

From " Cliilde Harold " 395 

Scenes by Lake Leman 395 

Waterioo 396 

Address to the Ocean 397 

Evening 398 

The Isles of Greece 398 

From the " Ode on Venice" 399 

She Walks in Beauty 400 

On His Thirty-sixth Year 400 

The Dream 401 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 403 

When We Two Parted 403 

Modern Critics 403 

Maid of Athens, Ere We Part 404 

To Thomas Moore 404 

Sonnet on Chillon 404 

When Coldness Wraps This Suffering Ch>y 404 

From " The Prophecy of Dante " 405 

Calderon, Don Pedro (Spanish^ 
Lines translated by Mrs. Conant 895 

Callanan, Joseph Jeremiah. 
The Virgin Mary's Bank 409 

Calverley, Charles Stuart. 
Lines Suggested by the Fourteenth of February. 844 

Calvert, George Henry. 
On the Fifty-Bfth Sonnet of Shakspearc 591 

Campbell, Thomas. 

Ye Mariners of England 332 

Lochicl's Warning 333 

Hallowed Ground 333 

Song of the Greeks 334 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 335 

Hohenliuden 335 

Freedom and Love 336 

The Soldier's Dream 336 

Valedictory Stanzas to John Philip Kcmblc, Esq. 337 

Exile of Erin 3.37 

Adelgitha 338 

Battle of the Baltic 338 

The Parrot 339 

To the Rainbow 339 

Hope's Kingdom 340 

Unbelief in Immortality 340 

Campion, Thomas. 
Silent Music 85 

Canning, George. i"-»oe 

The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder : 
A Parody on Southey's Lines, "The Widow".. 375 

On the Death of His Eldest Sou 276 

Song by Eogcro 276 

Care-w, Thomas. 

Disdain Returned .52 

On Returning Her Letters 52 

Mediocrity in Love Rejected .53 

Song : Ask Me No More .53 

Carey, Henry. 
Sally in Our Alley 165 

Carleton, Will. 
Over the Hill to the Poor-house 928 

Carlyle, Thomas. 

Cui Bono ? 475 

To-day 470 

Carrington, Noel Thomas. 
The Pixies of Devon 341 

Cartwright, William. 
On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman 5.56 

Cary, Alice. 

Alice's Last Hymn 768 

Thou that Drawest Aside the Curtain 769 

Cary, Phoebe. 

Tliou and 1 769 

Nearer Home 769 

Chadwick, John White. 

Auld Lang-sync 901 

By the Sea-shore 902 

Carpe Diem 902 

Channing, William EUery. 

To My Companions 744 

A Poet's Hope 744 

Channing, William Henry. 
Mignon's Song (from Goethe) 079 

Chapman, George. 

Of Sudden Death 19 

The Highest Standard 19 

Give Me a Spirit 19 

Charles I., King. 
A Royal Lamentation 86 

Charlton, Robert M. 
The Death of Jasper. 622 

Chatterton, Thomas. 
The Bristow Tragedy; or. The Death of Sir Charles 

Bawdin 2."9 

On Resignation 243 


Chaucer, Geoffrey. ^acb 

Au EurUily Paradise 1 

To his Empty Purse 2 

The Parson 3 

Good Counsel of Chaucer 3 

Cherry, Andrew. 
The Bay of Biscay. 


Child, Lydia Maria. 
Lines on Whitticr 634 

Chorley, Henry FothergiU. 
The Brave Old Oalc 


Churchill. Charles. 

Remorse .' 207 

From "The Kosciad :" Sketches of Yates, Foote, 
Murphy, Mrs. Clive, Mrs. Pope, Quin, and Gar- 
i-ick 207, 208, 209 

Gibber, Colley. 
The Blind Boy . 


Clare, John. 

On an Infant Killed by Lightning 452 

The Thrush's Nest : a Sonnet 4.52 

Spring Flowers 452 

Lines iu a Lucid Interval 4.53 

Clark, James Gowdrey. 

Clark, Willis Gaylord. 
" They that Seek Me Early shall Find .Me 



Clarke, James Freeman. 

Pr.ayer of Mary Queen of Scots 677 

The Rule with no Exception (after Goethe) 678 

White-capped Waves 678 

A Reminiscence (after PaiUeron) 678 

The Perfect Whole (after Geibel) 679 

Clarke, Miss Lilian. 
A Slielter against Storm and Rain (after the Ger- 
man of Ruekert) 678 

Clemmer, Mary. 

Waiting 889 

A Perfect Day 


Alone with God 


Clive, Mrs. Archer Wigley. 
The Wish 



Clough, Arthur Hugh. 

I will not Ask to Feel Thou Art 753 

Consider it Again 7.53 

Qui Laborat, Orat 753 

Dulce et Decornm Est Pro Patria Mori 754 

Qua Cursum Ventus 754 

In a Gondola 755 

Cockburn, Alicia Rvitherford. 
Tlie Flowers of the Forest 


. 194 

Coffin, Robert Barry. 
Ships at Sea 


Coleridge, Hartley. 

Still I am a Cliild 496 

Song: She is not Fair to Outward View 490 

No Course I cared to Keep 497 

Sonnet to Wordsworth 497 

The Flight of Youtli 497 

November : a Sonnet 497 

Wisdom the Gray Hairs to a Man 497 

Sonnet to Shakspeare 497 

Liberty : a Sonnet 498 

No Life Vain 498 

The Waif of Nature 498 

To a Newly-married Friend 498 

The Same, and Not Auotlier 498 

On Receiving Alms 498 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 

Love 306 

Hymn before Sunrise in tlie Vale of Cliamouni.. 307 

Complaint 808 

Human Life 308 

Fancy in Nubibus ; or, The Poet in tlie Clouds.. 308 

Love, Hope, and Patience in Education 309 

From " Dejection : an Ode" 309 

Death of Max Piccolomiui 309 

Epitaph on an Infant 309 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 310 

To the Author of "The Ancient Mariner" 317 

Epigram on Poetasters 555 

Coleridge, Sara. 
Sonnet on Blanco White 325 

Collier, Thomas Stephens. ■ 

A Windy Evening 917 

A Sea Echo 918 

Collins, Mortimer. 

First of April, 1876 817 

In View of Death 817 

The Positivists 817 

Collins's Last Verses 817 

Collins, William. 

Ode, Written in the Tear 1740 188 

Ode to Evening 189 

Ode on the Death of Thomson 189 

The Passions : an Ode for Music 190 

Collyer, Robert. 

Saxon Grit 79:! 

Colman, George, the Younger. 

Sir Marmaduke 263 

Colton, Caleb C. 

Life s a52 


Conant, Helen S. pioE 

From the Spanish of Calilerou 895 

Ahis ! (fioni the SpauisU of Heredia) 895 

Spanish Song 895 

Meeting (from tlie Spanish of Emilio Bcllo) 895 

German Love Song 895 

Conant, Samuel Stillman. 

Release ; 880 

A Vigil 880 

The Saucy Rogue (from the German) 880 

Conrad, Robert T. 
From "My Brother" 611 

Constable, Henry. 
Diaphenia 40 

Cook, Clarence. 
Abram and Zimri •. 823 

Cook, Eliza. 
The Old Arm-chair 746 

Cooke, John Esten. 
May 838 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton. 
Florence Vano 736 

Cooke, Rose Terry. 

Trailing Arbutus 819 

Indolence 819 

Corn-wall, Barry (see Procter, Bryan Waller'. 

Cotton, Charles. 
No Ills but wliat we Malic 114 

Cotton, Nathaniel. 
To-morrow 175 

Cowley, Abraham. 

My Picture 109 

Tentanda Est Via 110 

A Happy Life (from Martial) 110 

Marie tlial Swift Arrow 110 

On the Death of Crashaw Ill 

From " Tlie Wish " lU 

Co-wrper, William. 

Rural Sounds 210 

Aflectatiou 310 

Industry in Repose 211 

Welcome to Evening 211 

An Ode : Boadicca 211 

A Winter Evening in the Library 213 

On tlie Receipt of My Mother's Picture 213 

Loss of the. liiiyal George 213 

To Mary Unwin 214 

Character of Lord Chatham 214 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin 214 

Cox, Christopher Christian. 

One Year Ago 737 

Haste Not, Rci^t Not (after Schiller) 7:37 

Coxe, Arthur Cleveland. pace 

Watchwords 7.50 

Matin Bells 730 

Crabbe, George. 

The Sea in Calm and Storm 345 

The Pilgrim's Welcome 345 . 

It is the Soul that Sees 346 

Craik. Mrs. Dinah Mulock. 

To a Winter Wind 813 

Ton Late 812 

Pliilip, My King 813 

Cranoh, Christopher Pearse. 

Sonnet , 714 

Gnosis .' 714 

From an '-Ode" on Margaret Fuller Ossoli 715 

Crasha-w, Richard. 

In Praise of Lcssius's Rule of Ilealtli 101 

From "Wishes to his Snpi'osed Mistress" 101 

Two went up to the Temple to Pray 103 

Croly, George. 

Tlie Death of Leonidas 3.56 

Tlie Seventh Plague of Egypt a57 

Catiline's Defiance to the Roman Senate 358 

Cross, Marian Evans (George Eliot\ 

Oil, may I Join tlie Choir Invisible 771 

Day is Dying 771 

Cros^well, William. 

Drink and Away 603 

De Profiindis 1104 

Cunningham, Allan. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 366 

It's Hamc, and It's Hame 366 

Tlie Spring of the Tear 367 

Cunningham, John. 

May-eve ; or, Kate of Aberdeen 204 

Curry, Otway. 

Kingdom Come 605 

Curtis, George William. 

Egyptian Serenade r.'. 794 

Pearl Seed 794 

Ebb and Flow 794 

Major and Minor 794 

Music i' tlie Air 794 

Cutler, Elbridge Jefferson. 

A Poem for the Hour (ISGl) 846 

Cutter, George Washington. 

Song of Steam 732 

Dale, Thomas. 

Stanzas for Music 499 

Dirge 499 


Dana, Charles Anderson. fioE 

Sonnet : Manhood 756 

Sonnet : Via Sacra 757 

Sonnet : To R. B 757 

Dana, Richard Henry. 

Immortality -383 

Wasliington Allstou 383 

Tlie Island 3.'*i 

Tlie Pirate 384 

Daniel, Samvtel. 

Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland 20 

Fail- is ni}' Love 21 

Early Love 21 

Darley, George. 

Fi-oni " The Faiiic.s" 378 

Tlie Queen of the May 379 

Suicide 379 

Darwin, Erasmus. 

Tlie Goddess of Botany 206 

Eliza at the Battle of Minden 206 

Davenant, Sir William. 

Th3 Soldier Going to the lield 87 

To the Queen 87 

Davidson, Lucretia Maria. 

To my Sistei- 613 

Prophecy : To a Lady 644 

Davidson, Margaret Miller. 
Dedication of "Lenore"" 




Introduction to " Lenore " 64.5 

From "Lines to Lucretia" 646 

Davies, Sir John. 

The Soul's Aspirations 45 

Myself 46 

Davis, Thomas Osborne. 
The Welcome 719 

Davy, Sir Humphry. 
Written after Recovery from a Dangerous Ill- 
ness 341 

Life 342 

Thought 342 

Dawes, Rufus. 

To Genevieve 589 

Love Unchangeable 589 

De Kay, Charles. 

The Blush 933 

Fingers 933 

On Revisiting Statcn Island 933 

Denham, Sir John. 
Description of the Thame 


Derzhavin, Gabriel R. pace 

Ode to God (Bowring's translation; 4'.9 

De Vera (see Vere). 

Dibdin, Charles. 
Poor Jack 228 

Dickens, Charles. 
The Ivy Green 706 

Dimitry, Charles. 
Viva Italia 


Dimond, William. 
The Mariner's Dream. 


Doane, George Washington. 
What is that, Mother ? 518 

Dobell, Sydney Thompson. 

How's my Boy? 794 

Sonnet : America 795 

Dobson, Austin. 

'• More Poets Yet !" 89() 

The Prodigals 8iHi 

You bid me Try 890 

A Song of the Four Seasons 890 

Chansonctte 897 

The Child Musician 897 

Doddridge, Philip. 

Ye Golden Lamps 171 

Awake, Ye Saiuts 173 

Epigram 173 

Hark, the Glad Sound 173 

Dodge, Mary Mapes. 

In the Canon 903 

Shadow Evidence 904 

The Two Mysteries 904 

Now the Noisy Winds are Still 905 

Domett, Alfred. 
A Christmas Hymn. 


Donne, Dr. John. 

Sonnet 43 

The Soul's Flight to Heaven 42 

Elegy on Mistress Elizabeth Drury 42 

Dorr, Mrs. Julia C. 

Quietness 80S 

Heirship 808 

To-day : a Sonnet 809 

Somewhere 809 

Twenty-one 809 

Doten, Lizzie. 
" Gone is Gone, and Dead is Dead " 829 

Doubleday, Thomas. 
Sonnet : The W.illflowcr 413 


Douglas of Fingland. 

Anuie Laurie . 


. 164 

Dowden, Edward. 

Aboard the Sea-swalluii} 931 

Oasis 931 

Wise Passiveness 933 

Tlie Inner Life 933 

Two Infinities 933 

Drake, Joseph Rodman. 

He put his Acorn Helmet on 473 

Tlie American Flag 473 

Ode to Fortune 473 

The Gathering of the Fairies 473 

Drayton, Michael. 

A Parting 34 

The Ballad of Agincourt 34 

Drennan, William. 


Elliot, Miss Jane. 
The Flowers of the Forest . 

. 193 

Drummond, William. 

The Universe 49 

Man's Strange Ends 50 

The Hunt 50 

Dryden, John. 

Alexander's Feast 115 

Veui Creator 117 

Shaftesbury Delineated as Achitophel 113 

Buckingham Delineated as Zimri 118 

Eujoy the Present US 

Dufferin, Lady. 
Lament of the Irish Emigrant (571 

D'Urfey, Thomas. 
Still Water 150 

Durivage, Francis Alexander. 

All "37 

Chez Brebant 737 

Jerry 737 

Dwight, John Sullivan. 

Translation from Friederike Brun 306 

True Rest 717 

Vanitas! Vanitatum Vanitas ! (from Goethe) 71S 

Dyer, Sir Edward. 
My Mind to me a Kingdom is 8 

Dyer, John. 
Grougar Hill 170 

Eastman, Charles Gamage. 

Scene in a Vermont Wiuter 738 

Thanatos 739 

Eliot, George (see Cross, Marian Evans). 

Ellet, Elizabeth Fries. 
Sonnet : O Weary Heart 749 

Elliott, Ebenezer. 

Epigram 360 

Farewell to Riviliu 360 

From "Lyrics for ray Daughters" 360 

Hymn 361 

Not for Naught 361 

Spring : a Sonnet 361 

The Day was Dark 363 

A Poet's Epitaph 362 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 

The Snow-storm 593 

Goodbye, Proud Worid ! -593 

Sursura Corda 593 

To the Humblebee 593 

The Soul's Prophecy 593 

The Apology 593 

Concord Monumental Hymn 594 

English, Thomas Dunn. 
The Old Mill 


Everett, Alexander Hill. 
The Young American 413 

Everett, Edward. 
Alaric the Visigoth 4.59 

Ewen, John. 
O Weel may the Boatie Row 334 

Faber, Frederick William. 

'1 he Life of Trust 7.33 

Harsh Judgments 733 

Fairfax, Edward. 
Rinaldo at Mount Olivet 37 

Falconer, William. 
From "The Shipwreck" 305 

Fane, Julian. 
Three Sonnets, "Ad Matrem " 833 

Fanshawe, Catherine M. 
A Riddle on the Letter H 530 

Fawcett, Edgar. - 
Criticism 930 

Fenner, Cornelius George. 

Winnipiscogee Lake 779 

Gulf-weed 780 

Ferguson, Samuel. 
The Forging of the Anchor 

Fielding, Henry. 
The Maiden's Choice 



Fields, James T. 

Last Words in a Strange Land 748 

Agassiz 74S 


Finley, John. 
Bacheloi-'s Hall. 


. 503 

Fletcher, John (see Beaumont and Fletcher). 

Fletcher, Maria Jane (Jewsbury). 
Birth-day Ballad 

Ford, John. 
Musical Contest with a Niirhtini;ale 



Foster, Stephen Collins. 
Old Folks at Home 

Freneau, Philip. 
May to April 

Frere, John Hookham. 

The Proem 

Whistlecraft and Murray . 

Frisbie, Levi. 

A Castle in the Air 

Frothingham, Nathaniel Langdon. 

The Sight of the Blind 

O Gott, Du Frommer Gott ! 

Fuller, Margaret (Marchioness Ossoli). 
Sonnet : Orpheus 

Sonnet : Beethoven 

On Leaving the West. 

Gall, Richard. 
.My only Jo and Dearie O. 

Gallagher, William D. 
From "My Fiftieth Year" 


The Laborer 

From " Miami Woods" 

Gambold, John. 
The Mystery of Life 

Gannett, William Channing. 
Listeuing for God 

Garrison, William Lloyd. 

The Guiltless Prisoner 

Freedom of the Mind 

To Benjamin Lundy 















Gasooigne, George. 
The Lullaljy 

Gay, John. 
Sweet William's Farewell to Black-eyed Susan... 
The Hare and many Friends 

Gibson, William. 
From the "Hymn to Freya" 



Gifford, William.. taue 

To a Tult of Eariy Violets 34.S 

From " The Baviad " 349 

Gilbert, William Schwenck. 

To the Terrestrial Globe 871 

Mortal Love STl 

Gilder, Richard Watson. 

The River ;)24 

A Thought 934 

Song 934 

O Sweet Wild Roses that Bud and Blow 9ri4 

Call me not Dead 935 

My Songs are all of Thee 935 

Gillespie, William. 
The Highlander 


Gilman, Mrs. Caroline. 

From " The Plantation " 4.58 

Annie in the Graveyard 458 

Glen, William. 
Wae's me for Prince Charlie. 

Glover, Richard. 
Admiral Hosier's Ghost 



Goethe, John Wolfgang von. 

The Days of Youth (Anster's translation) 443 

The Soul of Eloquence (Anster) 443 

The Rule with no Exception (Clarke) 678 

Mignon's Song (Channing, W. H.) 679 

Vanitas ! Vanitatum Vanitas ! (Dwight) 718 

What Songs are Like (Bowring) 818 

Youth and Age (Bowring) 818 

Goldsmith, Oliver. 

The Deserted Village 195 

From " The Traveller ; or, A Prospect of Society " 199 
Retaliation ■ 3U0 

Good, John Mason. 
The Daisv 


Goodale, Dora Reed. 

Ripe Grain 943 

April ! April ! are you here ? 943 

What is Left ? 943 

Goodale, Elaine. 

Papa's Birthday {141 

Ashes of Roses 943 

Gosse, Edmund W. 

Villanelle 920 

The God of Wine :— Chant Royal 937 

Gould, Hannah Flagg. 

The Crocus's Soliloquy .530 

Gower, John. 

Medea gathering Herbs 3 


Graham, James (Marquis of Montrose\ paoe 
I'll never Love Thee more 103 

Graham, Robert. 
Oil, Tell me how to Woo Thee 235 

Grahame, James. 

Subb;Uh Mornin;;- 269 

A Winter Sabbath Walk 370 

A Present Deity 370 

Grant, Mrs. Anne (of Laggan). 
Oh, Where, Tell me Where ? ai7 

Grant, Mrs. (of Carron). 

Roy's Wife of Aldivalloeli 225 

Grant, Robert. 
Whom have I in Heaven but Thee? 378 

Gray, David. 

Wintry Weather 888 

Die Down, O Dismal Djiy 889 

If it Must Be •. 889 

An October Musing 889 

Gray, Thomas. 

Elesy Written in a Country Chureh-yard 183 

Ode on a Distant Prospeet of Eton College 184 

Green, Matthew. 
From " The Spleen " 154 

Greene, Albert Gorton. 
Old (jrimcs 578 

Greene, Robert. 
A Death-bed Lament 19 

Greg, Samuel. 

Beaten! Beaten!. 


Greville, Fulke (Lord Brooke\ 

Reality of a True Religion. 18 

From "Lines on the Death of Philip Sidney"... 18 

Griffin, Edmund D. 
Lines on Leaving Italy . 


Griffin, Gerald, 

Song: A Place in Thy Memory, Dearest 586 

Adare .586 

The Bridal of Malahide 586 

Gustafson, Zadel Barnes. 

Zlobane 906 

The Factory Boy 907 

Habington, William, 
Nomine Labia Mea Aperies. 

Hageman, Samuel Miller. 
Stanzas from " Silence" ... . 



Hall, Joseph. f aoe 

Anthem for the Catliedral of Exeter 40 

On Love Poetry 41 

Hall, Mrs. Louisa Jane. 

Grow not Old 580 

Waking Dreams 580 

Hall, Samuel Carter. 
Nature's Creed 571 

Hallam, Arthur Henry. 

Three Sonnets 695 

To Alfred Tennyson 695 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene. 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 476 

Marco Bozzaiis 470 

Burns 478 

Alnwick Castle 479 

Halpine, Charles Graham. 
Janctte's Ilair 833 

Hamilton, Elizabeth, 
My Aiu Fireside .^ 2.53 

Hamilton, William. 
The Braes of Yarrow 173 

Hamilton, William Ro-wan. 

A Prayer fii:! 

To Adams, Discoverer of the Planet Neptune 613 

Harney, William Wallace. 
Jimmy's Wooing S.^ 

Harris, Thomas Lake. 
The Spirit-born 785 

Harte, Bret. 

Dow's Flat 877 

Jim 878 

Hawker, Robert Stephen. 

Song of llic Cornish Men .584 

"Are They not all Ministering Spirits?" 585 

Hawthorne, Juliaii. 

Freewill 939 

Hay, John. 

A Triumph of Order 893 

My Castle in Spain 894 

Hayley, William. 
The Departing Swallows. 


Hayne, Paul Hamilton. 

From the Woods 848 

Lyric of Action 849 

Sonnet , &49 


Heber, Reginald. pace 

From Bishop Heber's Journal 363 

The Widow of Naiii 363 

Missionary Hymn 364 

Cliristnias Hymn 364 

Early Piuty .'.364 

Tlie Moonlight March 364 

M;iy-day 365 

Hedderwick, James. 
First Grief. 739 

Hedge, Frederic Henry. 

Tlie Crucifi.xion 615 

Questiouim^s 615 

Heerman, Johann (GermanV 
Hymn (translated by Frothiugham) 446 

Heine, Heinrich (German\ 
Sie Haben Mich Gequalet (Martin's translation). 740 
The Excellent Man (Martin's translation) 740 

Hemans, Felicia. 

Calm on the Bosom of Thy God 447 

The Graves of a Household 447 

The Pilgrim Fathers 448 

The Home of the Spirit 448 

Casablanca 448 

Sonnet on Grasmere 449 

The Messenger-bird 449 

Le.iTC Me Not Yet 4.50 

Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants 4.50 

Hymn of the Mountaineers 4.50 

The Greelc Islander in Exile 451 

Sunday in England 451 

Henryson, Robert. 
A Vision of j-Esop 5 

Heraud, John Abraham. 
The Emigrant's Home 519 

Herbert, George. 

Man 60 

The Elixir 61 

Sweet Day 61 

Heredia, Jose Maria (Spanish). 
Alas ! (translated Ijy Mrs. Couant) 895 

Herriok, Robert. 

To Dattbdils .54 

Not a Prophet Every Day 54 

Ode to Ben Jonson 54 

Litany to the Holy Spirit 55 

Night-piece to Julia 55 

To Blossoms 55 

To Corinna, to Go a-Maying 56 

To Dianeme 56 

Prayer to Ben Jonson 57 

The Primrose 57 

Herschel, Sir John. 
Throw Thyself on Thy God 441 


Hervey, Thomas Kibble. paue 

Hope 601 

To One Departed 602 

Cleopatra Embarking on the Cydnus 602 

To Ellen— Weeping 603 

Hey~wood, Thomas. 

Fantasies of Drunkenness 30 

Song : Pack Clouds Away 37 

Search after God 37 

Higginson, Mary Thaoher. 

Gifts 791 

Higginson, Thomas Wentworth. 

"I will Arise and go to my Father" 791 

Decoration : 792 

The Reed Immortal 792 

Hill, Thomas. 

The Bobolink ._ 751 

Antiopa 751 

The W'inter is Past 753 

Hillhouse, James Abraham. 

Interview of Hadad and Tamar 410 

Hirst. Henry B. 

Parting of Dian and Endymion 718 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno. 

Monterey 617 

Hogg, James. 

Bonny Kilmeny 277 

The Skylark 381 

When Maggy Gangs Away 281 

Mischievous Woman 553 

Holoroft, Thomas. 

Gafler Gray 229 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert. 

Gradatim 766 

Wanted 766 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 

Bill and Joe 6.58 

Old Ironsides 653 

Kudolph, the Headsman 654 

Nearing the Snow-line 654 

The Chambered Nautilus 654 

The Two Streams 655 

To James Freemau Clarke 655 

Contentment 655 

The Voiceless 6.56 

L'Inconnue 656 

Holyday, Barten. 

Distichs 59 

Home, John. 

The Soldier-hermit 193 


Home, F. Wyville. f^cE 

A Choice 937 

From "Ode to the Viuc" 937 

Hood, Thomas. 

Sonnet on the Countin2;-house 507 

The Briclii-e of Sighs 508 

Tlie Song of the Sliirt 509 

I remember 510 

Fair Ines 510 

Farewell, Life 511 

The Monkey-martyr : a Fahle 511 

The Lee Shore 513 

To Charles DicUcns, Esq 513 

Ruth 513 

A Parental Ode to My Son 513 

The Impudence of Steam 514 

Tlie Death-bed 514 

Hooper, Lucy Hamilton. 

On an Old Portrait 876 

In Vain '. 87(5 

The Kinir's Ride 877 

Hopkinson, Joseph. 
Hail, Columbia ! 


Home, Richard Hengist. 

Morning 581 

Summer Noon 581 

Hosmer, William Henry Cuyler. 

Blake's Visitants 

To a Long Silent Sister of Song 


Houghton, Lord (see Milnes). 

Howard, Henry (Earl of Surrey). 
How No Age is Content 6 

Howarth, Mrs. 
Thou Wilt Never Grow Old 547 

Howe, Julia Ward. 

Battle Hymn of the Reiniblic 7.58 

Speak, for Thy Servant Ileareth 758 

Howells, William Dean. 

Thanksgiving 871 

Tlie Mysteries 871 

Howitt, Mary. 


The Fairies of Caldon-Low 590 

The Spider and the Fly 597 

CornheUls 598 

Howitt, William. 

Hoarfrost : a Sonnet 483 

The Wind in a Frolic 483 

Howland, Mrs. Robert S. 
Retinicscam 549 

Hoyt, Ralph. 

Stanzas from "New' 

. 073 

Hume, Alexander a560-1609'. 
The Story of a Summer Day 

Hume, Alexander (1809-1851). 
My Wee, Wee Wife 

Hunt, Leigh. 
To T. L. II., Six Years Old, during Sickness. 

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel 

An Italian Morning in May 

Thoughts on the Avon, Sept. 28, 1817 

May and the Poets 


Jenny Kissed Mc 

Hunter, Mrs. Anne. 
Indian Death-song.. 

Huntington, Frederic Dan. 
A Supplication 

Imlah, John. 
The Gathering .' 

From "There Lives a Young Lassie' 







Ingelow, Jean. 
The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571). 

Inglis, Mrs. Margaret Max^vell. 
From "Lines on the Death of Hogg" 


Jackson, Helen Fiske. 

The AVay to Sing 





Thougbt 843 

October 844 

Jackson, Henry Rootes. 

My Fatlier 776 

The Live-oak 776 

My Wife and Child 777 

James I. of England. 
Sonnet : To Prince Henry 38 

James I. of Scotland. 
1 lie Captive King 5 

James, Paul Moon. 
The Beacon 355 

Jenks, Ed'vyard Augustus. 
Going and Coming 840 

Jerrold, Douglas. 
The Drum 584 

Johnson, Edward. 

Tlie AVater-drinker 



Johnson, Samuel. p-ioe 

Charles XII, of Sn-cden 178 

On the Deatli of Mr. Robert Levett 178 

Cardinal Wolsey 179 

Nor Deem Rcligioix Vain 179 

On Claude Phillips, an Itinerant Musician in Wales. 179 

Jones, Sir William. 

A Persian Song of Hafiz 233 

Tetrastich (from the Persian) 233 

An Ode in Imitation of Aieicus 333 

Jonson, Ben. 

To the Memory of Sh;ikspeare 43 

See the Chariot iit Hand 43 

The Song of Hesperus 44 

On a Portrait of Sliakspcare 44 

An Ode : To Himself. 44 

Epitaph on tlie Countess of Pembroke 45 

The Sweet Neglect 45 

Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. H 45 

Song to Celia 45 

Good Life, Long Life 45 

Joyce, Robert Dwyer. 

F.air Gwendoline and her Dove 883 

The Banks of Anner 883 

Glenara 883 

Judson, Mrs. Emily. 
Watching ■ 747 

Keats, John. 

Sonnet 18 

The Eve of St. Agnes 48B 

Ode 490 

Beauty 491 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci 491 

Sonnet 493 

Sonnet to a Young Lady 493 

Sonnet in a New Form 493 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket 493 

Keats's Last Sonnet 493 

Fairy Song 493 

Fancy 493 

Ode to a Nightingale 494 

Ode to Autumn 495 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 495 

Keble, John. 

Morning 436 

Evening 437 

Address to Poets 438 

A Thought 438 

Kemble, Frances Anne. 

Lines Written in London. 694 

Written after leaving West Point G94 

Ken, Thomas. 
From the " Evening Hymn " 130 

Kennedy, William. 

Lines on Motherwell .' 530 

A Thought 530 

Kenney, James. tage 

Why are You Wandering Here? .3.59 

Love's Remonstrance .539 

Kenyon, John. 
Champagne Rose . 


Keppel, Lacly Caroline. 
Robin Adair 230 

Key, Francis Scott. 

Tlie Star-spangled Banner 343 

The Worm's Death-song 343 

Kimball, Harriet McEwen. 

The Guest S.57 

The Crickets 857 

Longing for Rain 8.58 

All's Well 858 

King, Henry. 
From the " E.xequy on liis Wife' 
Sic Vita 


Kingsley, Charles. 

The Three Fishers 765 

Tlie World's Age 705 

The Sands of Dee 705 

A Farewell 705 

Kinloch, Lord. 
The Star in the East 570 

Kinney, Coates. 

From " The Mother of Glory " 810 

Rain on the Roof. 811 

Knowles, Herbert. 
Lines Written in a Cliurch-yard . 


Knowles, James Sheridan. 

From the last Act of " Virginius " 4.56 

Tell among tlie Mountains 457 

The Actor's Craft 457 

Knox, Isabella (Craig). 
The Brides of Quair 845 

Knox, William. 
Oh! why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? 410 

Korner, Theodore (German). 
Battle Hymn and Farewell to Life 543 

Lacoste, Marie R. 
Somebody's Darling 915 

Laighton, Albert. 

Under the Leaves 837 

To My Soul 837 

The Dead 837 

Laing, Alexander. 
The Happy Mother 383 


Lamb, Charles. tage 

The Old Familiar Faces 327 

Lines Written in inv own Album 327 

To James Sheridan Kiiowles 327 

Landon, Letitia Elizabeth (Mrs. Maclean). 

Success Alone Seen 577 

Death and the Youth 57S 

Landor, Walter Savage. 

To the Sister of "Elia" (Charles Lamb) 339 

Julius Hare 339 

Rose A.vlmer 339 

Death 339 

Langhorne, John. 
From "Owen of Carron" 218 

Lanier, Sidney. 

A Rose-moral 916 

Evening Song - 910 

The Harlequin of Dreams 917 

From the Flats 917 

Larcom, Lucy. 
Uaunah Binding Shoes 814 

Lathrop, George Parsons. 

Musie of Growth 937 

Sonnet : The Lover's Tear 937 

The Sunshine of Thine Eyes 937 

Lawrence, Jonathan, Jr. 
Look Aloft 626 

Leigh, Arrah. 

I Am the Lord; I Change Not 547 

Leighton, Robert. 

Ye Three Voices 785 

Books 786 

Leland, Charles Godfrey. 
Mine Own 796 

Lewis, Matthew Gregory. 

Lines to a Friend S2S 

The Helmsman 328 

A Matrimonial Duet 328 

Leyden, John. 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 326 

Sonnet on the Sabbath Morning 336 

Lilly, John. 
Cupid and Cainpaspe 40 

Linton, William James. 

From " Definitions" 703 

Real and True 704 

Labor in Vain 704 

Poets 704 

A Prayer for Truth 704 

Lippincott, Mrs. Sarah Jane. page 

The Poet of To-day 790 

Locker, Frederick. 

St. George's, Hanover Square 777 

The Unrealized Ideal 778 

Lockhart, John Gibson. 

Captain Patou's Lament 453 

Beyond 4.54 

Lamentation for Celin 455 

Logan, John. 

Ode to the Cuckoo 234 

Tlie Braes of Yarrow 3.34 

Lombard, James K. 

"Xut as Though I had Already AtUiined" 853 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 

Killed at tne Ford C29 

The Launch 639 

The Arrow and the Song 630 

Revenge of Rainin-the-Facc 630 

The Rainy Day 031 

Rain in Summer 631 

Sonnet : The Poets 633 

Phantoms 6.33 

Sonnet : Nature 632 

Excelsior 633 

Hawthorne 633 

The Bells of Lynn, heard at Nahant 634 

Longfellow, Samuel. 

April 766 

November 766 

Lovelace, Richard. 

To Althea (from Prison) 109 

To Lucasta (on Going to the Wars) 109 

Lover, Sam.uel. 

Rory O'More ; or. Good Omens 507 

The Angel's Whisper 507 

Lowell, James Russell. 

Auf Wiedersehen ! 763 

A Day hi June 763 

To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 763 

Longing 704 

"In Whom We Live and Move " 7M 

She Came and Went 704 

Lowell, Robert Traill Spence. 
Love Disposed Of 741 

Ludlow, Fitz-Hugh. 
Too Late 883 

Lunt, George. 

From " The Pilgrim Song" 631 

The Haymakers 631 

The Comet 621 

Requiem 633 


Lunt, "William Parsons. 
Tlie Americau Flair 


. 613 

Luttrell, Henry. 
The Xovembcr Fog 

of London 297 

Lydgate, John. 
From the Ballad of "London Lyekpcnny" 4 

Lyle, Thomas. 
Kelvin Grove 


Lyte, Henry Francis. 

Hymn: "Abide With Me" 44.5 

From Lines on "Evening" 445 

Lytle, William Haines. 
Autony to Cleopatra 814 

Lyttelton, George (Lord). 
Tell Me, My Heart 177 

Lytton, Lord (Edward Bulwer). 

Caradoc, the Bard to the Cyrarians 606 

A Spendthrift 606 

The Guardian Angel 606 

To the King 606 

Is it all Vanity ? 607 

Invocation to Love 607 

Epigrams from the German 607 

Lytton, Edward Robert (Lord). 
Leoline 845 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington. 

From the Lay of " Horatius" 5.57 

The Battle of Naseby 561 

The Armada .563 

Tlie Battle of Ivry 563 

McCarthy, Denis Florence. 
Summer Longings 749 

Mace, Frances Laughton. 

Easter Morning 866 

Indian Summer 866 

Only Waiting 867 

McCord, Mrs. Louisa S. 

What Used to Be 675 

Tliy Will Be Done 675 

Passages from " Caius Gracchus " 676 

Dedication of " Caius Gracchus " 676 

Macdonald, George. 

Baby 797 

"Lord, I Believe; Help Thou Mine Unbelief".. 798 

McGee, Thomas D'Arcy. 
Cathal's Farewell to tlie Rye. 


Mackay, Charles. 

Tlie Watcher on the Tower 724 

The Good Time Coming 725 

Nature and her Lover 726 

McKnight, George. pa^'K 

"Tliougli Naught Tlicy May to Others Be" 891) 

Perpetual Youth S99 

Scorn 899 

Opportunity 899 

Triumph 899 

In Unison 900 

"The Glory of the Lord siiall Endure Forever" 900 

Tlie Test of Truth 900 

Euthanasia 9U0 

Consummation 900 

Clear Assurance 90O 

Live While You Live 901 

Memento Mori 901 

Gifts 901 

Kinship 901 

Maclagan, Alexander. 
"Dinna Ye Hear It?". 

McCIellan, Isaac. 
The Notes of the Birds. 

McMaster, Guy Humphrey. 

Carmen Bellieosum 

Brant to the Indians 

Macneil, Hector. 
JIary of Castle-Cary . 

Macnish, Robert. 
My Little Sister 







Macpherson, James. 
Ossiau's Address to the Sun. 
The Song of Colma 

Maginn, William. 
The Irishman 

Mahony, Francis (Father Prout'. 
Poetical Epistle from Father Prout to Boz (Charles 


The Bells of Shandon. 

Popular KecoUeetions of Bonaparte (after Be- 


Mangan, James Clarence. 

The JIariner's Bride 

The Nameless One 

From " Soul and Country " 

Marlowe, Christopher. 

The Death of Faustus 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love. 
Answer to the Same 

Marston, John. 

The Scholar and his Spaniel 

To Detraction I Present my Poesie. 

Marston, Philip Bourke. 
From Far 








Martin, Theodore. page 

Napoleon's Mklniglit Review (from the Germnn 

of Baron Joseph Christian von Zedlitz) 739 

Sie Haben Mich Gequalet (from Heine) 740 

Ihe Excellent Man (fi-om Heine) 740 

Marvell, Andrew. 

Sons of the Emigrants in Bermuda Ill 

Cour.nge, my Soul ! 113 

A Drop of Dew 113 

Thoughts in a Garden 113 

Marzials, Tlieophile. 
Carpe Diem ; Kundcan 936 

Mason, Caroline Atherton. 

Not Yet 788 

Beauty for Ashes 7S8 

An October Wood Hymn 788 

Mason, William. 
Epitnph on Mrs. Mason, in the Cathedral of Bristol 193 

Massey, Gerald. 
Little Willie 826 

Massinger, Philip. 

Waiting for Death 48 

From "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" 48 

Mayne, John. 
Logan Braes 263 

Meek, Alexander Beaufort. 
Balaklava 731 

Mellen, Grenville. 

Tlie Bugle 52.5 

Meredith, George. 

Love within tlie Lover's Breast 826 

At the Gate 826 

Merivale, Jolm Herman. 

" Evil, be Thou my Good" 343 

Reason and Understanding 344 

From the Greek Anthology 344 

Merrick, James. 
The Chameleon 185 

Messinger, Robert Hinckley. 
A Winter Wish C93 

Mickle, William Julius. 
The Mariner's Wife 217 

Miller, Abraham Perry. 

A Summer Afternoon 885 

The Divine Refuge 885 

Turn to the Helper 885 

The Disappointed Lover 886 

Keep Faith iu Love 886 

Miller, Elizabeth Henry. i-age 

Now and Ever Wl 

Miller, Joaquin. 

Longings for Home 914 

Palatine Hill 914 

Love Me, Love 914 

Miller, Robert. 
Where are They? 691 

Miller, Thomas. 
Evening Song 658 

Miller, William. 
Willie Winkle 692 

Milliken, Richard Alfred. 
The Groves of Blarney 272 

Milman, Henry Hart. 

The ApoUo-Belvidere 417 

Stanzas on Sophia Loekhnrt 417 

The Love of God : Two Sonnets 418 

Milnes, Richard Monckton (Lord Houghton\ 

All Things Once are Things Forever 6.59 

The Worth of Hours 659 

Youth and Manhood 6.59 

I AVandercd by the Brook-side 660 

From " The Long-ago " 6(;0 

Milton, John. 

L' Allegro 90 

n Penseroso 91 

Lycidas 93 

The Messenger's Account of Samson 95 

Scene from "Coraus" 96 

Satan's Encounter with Death 96 

Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn 97 

One First Matter All 98 

What is Glory? 98 

Epitajih on Shakspeare 99 

On his being arrived to the Age of Twcuty-three. 99 

To the Lord-general, Cromwell 99 

To Sir Henry Vane the Younger 99 

On his Blindness 99 

To Mr. Lawrence 100 

To Cyriac SkinhCH- 100 

On the Religious Memory of Mrs. Catherine Thom- 
son, my Christian Friend, Deceased Dec. 16, 1646. 100 

Song : On May Morning lUO 

From the Spirit's Epilogue in "Comus" 100 

Mitchell, Walter. 
Tacking Ship Off Shore 813 

Mitford, Mary Russell. 

Rienzi's Address to the Romans 882 

Song 383 

Moir, David Macbeth. 
Langsyue 500 


Montgomery, James. fage 

The Common Lot , . . . 303 

ForeTcr with the Lord 303 

Touth Renewed 304 

Lift lip Tliine Eyes, Afflicted Soul 304 

Sonnet : The Ci-ueitixion ._ 304 

Humility .' 305 

Moore, Clement C. 
A Vifit from St. Nicholas. 


Moore, Thomas. 

Yet, yet forgive Me, O ye Sacred Few ! 34.5 

The Meeting of the W.iters 345 

Believe Me, if all those Endearing Young Charms. 345 

The Turf shall be my Fragrant Shrine 34n 

Oh! Breathe not his Name 846 

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls 346 

Oft, in tlie Stilly Night .346 

Those Evening Bells 347 

Farewell ! — but, whenever you 'Welcome the Hour. 347 

Oli, could We do with this World of Ours 347 

Remember Thee 347 

Thou art, O God 348 

The Last Rose of Summer 348 

The Modern Puffing System ;>iS 

I saw from the Beach 349 

Love's Young Dream 349 

Oh, Thou who Dry'st the Mourner's Tear 349 

Come, ye Disconsolate 349 

To Greece we give our Shiuing Blades 350 

More, Hannah. 

The Two Weavers 239 

Kindness in Little Things 230 

More, Henry. 

The Pre-cxisteucy of the Soul 105 

From "The Philosopher's Devotion" 100 

Morris, Lewis. 

It Shall be Well 8.53 

Dear Little Hand 8.54 

The Treasure of Hope 854 

Morris, William. 


Motherwell, William. 

The Cavalier's Song 499 

Jeanie Morrison 500 

Lines Given to a Friend 501 

Motley, John Lothrop. 
Lines Written at Syracuse 723 

Moulton, Ellen Louise. 

Alone by tlie Bay 863 

lu Time to Come 803 

Moultrie, John. 

"Forget Thee?" 515 

Here's to Thee, my Scottish Lassie 515 

Mowatt-Ritohie, Mrs. Anna Cora. "ge 

To a Beloved One 770 

Muhlenberg, William Augustus. 
"I Would Not Live Alway" 551 

Mulock, Dinah M. (see Craik\ 

Munby, Arthur. 

Autumn 881 

Doris : A Pastoral 884 

Nairne, Carolina (Baroness). 

Tlie Land o' the Leal 271 

AVould you be Young again ? 271 

Nash, Thomas. 

Spring 38 

The Coming of Winter 38 

The Decay of Summer 39 

Neal, John. 


Neele, Henry. 
Where is He ? , 5.33 

Newman, John Henry. 

Flowers without Fruit 571 

A Voice from Afar 572 

Guardian Angel 572 

Newton, Cradock. 
Wonderland 552 

NiooU, Robert. 

People's Anthem 720 

Life in Death 720 

Niles, Nathaniel. 
The American Hero 223 

Noble, James Ashcroft. 
Love and Absence 555 

Noel, Thomas. 
The Pauper's Drive .527 

Norris, John. 

The Aspiration 123 

Superstition 122 

Norton, Andrews. 

Scene after a Summer Shower 381 

Trust and Submission 3S1 

Norton, Caroline. 

Bingen on tlie Rhine (>46 

The Child of Earth 647 

To my Books 648 

Love Not 648 

The King of Denmark's Ride 648 

Noyes, Charles H. 

The Prodigal Son to tlie Earth 934 

My Soldier 934 


O'Brien, Fitz-James. 
Elislui Kent Kane 


. 833 

O'Keefe, John. 
I am a Fi uir of Orders Gray 233 

O'Reilly, John Boyle. 

Western Australia 9313 

Forever 933 

At Best 923 

Osgood, Frances Sargent. 

"Bois Ton Sang, Beaumanon-" 707 

Little Things 708 

Laborarc est Orare 708 

An Atlantic Trip 708 

The Author's Last Verses 70S 

Osgood, Kate Putnam. 
Driving Home the Cows. 


Otway, Thomas. 
From " Venice Preserved " 121 

Page, Emily R. 
The Old Cauoe. 


Pailleron, Edouard (French). 
A Reminiscence (translated by J. F. Clarke) 678 

Paine, Robert Treat, Jr. 
Ode : Adams and Liberty 318 

Palgrave, Francis Turner. 

Faith and Sight : In the Latter Days 796 

To a Child 797 

Pardoe, Julia. 
The Beacoudight . 


Parker, Martyn. 
Ye Gentlemen of England 164 

Parker, Theodore. 

Three Sonnets 689 

Hymn 690 

Parnell, Thomas. 
The Hermit 


Parsons, Thomas 'William. 

Saint Peray 759 

In St. James's Park 760 

Partridge, Samuel 'William. 
" Not to Myself Alone " 674 

Patmore, Coventry. 

From " Faithful Forever" 790 

The Toys 790 

Payne, John Howard. 
Home, Sweet Home ! ... 


Pajme, John. page 

I!ond(;au Redouble 918 

Villanelle 918 

Peabody, Ephraim. 

To a Child 

From "The Backwoodsman' 

Peabody, Everett. 
Soug of the Cadets 



Peabody, O. "W. B. 

Visions of Immortality 523 

To a Departed Friend 534 

The Disembodied Spirit 524 

Peabody, "W. B. O. 

The Autumn Evening .523 

The Alarm 523 

Nature and Nature's God 523 

Hymn of -Nature 535 

Peacock, Thomas Love. 

Oh! say not Woman's Heart is Bought .534 

Love and Age 534 

Penney, 'William (Lord Kinloch). 
The Star in the East 570 

Percival, James Gates. 

Elegiac : From " Classic Melodies" 481 

To Seneca Lake 483 

The Coral Grove 483 

Sonnet on Emilic Marshall 483 

May 483 

A Vision 483 

Percy, Thomas. 
The Friar of Orders Gray 202 

Perkins, James Handasyd. 

On Lake Michigan 

The Upriglit Soul 


Perry, Nora. 

In the Dark 920 

In June 920 

Riding Down 921 

Some Day of Days 921 

Pfeiffer, Emily. 
Summer-time : Villanelle 920 

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart. 

Apple Blossoms 925 

On the Bridge of Sighs 925 

Philips, Ambrose. 

A Fragment of Sappho 126 

To Miss Georgiana Carteret 126 

Philips, John. 
From "The Splendid Shilling " 131 


Phillips, Katherine. pace 

To Jlrs. M. A., at Parting 119 

On Couti'oversies in Kclij;ion 110 

Piatt, John James. 

The First Tryst 864 

The Morning Street 804 

Piatt, Mrs. J. J. 
The Gift of Empty Hands 865 

Pickering, Henry. 
Tlie House in whieli 1 was Born 303 

Pierpont, John. 

The Pilsfrim Fathers 3T0 

From "The Departed Child " 3S0 

What Blesses Now Must Ever Bless 3S0 

Pike, Albert. 
Buena Vista 


Pinkney, Edward Coate. 

A Health 5T2 

Song : We Breali the Glass 573 

Pitt, William. 

The Sailor's Consolation 533 

Plimpton, Floras Beardsley. 

Tell Her. 


Poe, Edgar Allan. 

To Sarali Helen Wliitnian 661 

The Bells 663 

The Raven 603 

To Fiances Sargent Osgood 605 

Pollok, Robert. 

Invocation (from "The Course of Time") 510 

Pride the Cause of Sin (from "The Course of Time") 516 

True Happiness (from "The Course of Time").. 517 

Holy Love (from "The Course of Time") 517 

A Moonlight Evening (from "The Course of Time") 517 

Poole, Hester M. 

An October Scene 943 

A Little While 943 

Pope, Alexander. 

Lines on Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford 133 

Ode on Solitude 143 

From " The Essay on Criticism " 143 

To Henry St. John (Lord Bolingbroke) 143 

From the "Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot" 144 

From " The Rape of the Locli" 145 

The Universal Prayer 146 

Tlie Dying Christian to bis Soul 146 

From " Eloisa to Abelard" 147 

Conclusion of the "Essay on Man" 147 

Of tlie Cliaracters of Women 149 

Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of "Cato".. 1.50 

Tlie Moon (translated from Homer) 1.50 

From "The Temple of Fame" 1.50 

Lines on Addison 151 

Conclusion of " The Dunciad" 151 

Powers, Horatio Nelson. paoe 

From "Memorial Day" 810 

A Rose-bud 816 

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth. 

My Little Cousins 574 

Where is Miss Myrtle ? 574 

Tell Him I Love Him Yet 575 

April-fools 575 

Good-night 576 

Charade on Campbell 570 

I Remember, I Remember 577 

Prentice, George Denison. 

To an Absent Wife 578 

Lookout Mountain 579 

Preston, Harriet W. 
Thirteen (after Theodore Aubanel) 919 

Preston, Margaret Junkin. 

Dedication 837 

Tlie Tyranny of Mood .837 

Saint Cecilia 837 

Pringle, Thomas. 

Afar in the Desert 407 

The Emigrant's Farewell 408 

Prior, Matthew. 

A Simile 123 

To a Child of Quality 133 

Procter, Adelaide Anne. 

Ministering Angels 805 

The Lost Chord 8(16 

Strive, Wait, and Pray 800 

Procter, Bryan 'Waller (Barry Cornwall). 

The Sea 385 

The Return of the Admiral 385 

Sonnet to Adelaide 386 

A Petition to Time 380 

Softly Woo Away Her Breath 386 

Life 386 

Proctor, Edna Dean. 

From " The Return of tlie Dead " 838 

Take Heart 839 

Heaven, O Lord, I Cannot Lose 839 

Prout, Father (see Mahony, Francis). 

Quarles, Francis. 

The Vanity of the World .~7 

Delight in God Only .58 

Raleigh, Sir Walter. 

Tlie Lie 14 

Tlie Silent Lover 15 

My Pilgrimage 10 

Ramsay, Allan. 

The Clock and Dial 1.39 

Farewell to Locljaber 139 


Randall, James Ryder. 


. 893 

Read, Thomas Buchanan. 

Drifting 7S0 

SUeridim's Ride 781 

Tlie Closing Scene 782 

Reade, John Edmund. 
The Colosseum 


Realf, Richard. 

My Slain 8.59 

Symbolisms 800 

Robbins, Samuel Dowse. 

Euthanasia 707 

Lead Me 707 

Rockwell, James Otis. 
The Lost at Sea 

Rodger, Alexander. 

Behave Youi-sol' Before Folk 



Rogers, Samuel. 

The Old Ancestral Mansion 207 

Hopes for Italy ogg 

Venice 308 

Roman Relics 308 

Rosooe. William. 
To My Books 244 

Roscoe, William Caldwell. 
Sonnet: To a Frieud 


Roscommon, Earl of. 
Poctie Inspiration 120 

Rossetti, Christina Georgina. 

Consider 834 

Beauty is Vaiu 834 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. 

Lost Days : Sonuet 822 

From "The Portrait" 823 

Riiokert, Friedrich (German). 
A Shelter (translated by Miss Clarke) 678 

Russell, Thomas. 

To Valelusa ogg 

Sonnet 207 

Sands, Robert Comfort. 

From " Yamoydcn " 520 

1 he Dead of 1832 .521 

Sargent, Epes. 
Evenini; in Gloucester Harbor. 

Sunrise at Sea 

A Life on the Oceau Wave 


Sargent, Epes. page 

Linda's Song 717 

Soul of My Soul 717 

Sonnet: To David Friedrich Strauss 717 

Webster 717 

Sargent, Horace Binney. 
After "Taps " 77s 

Sargent, John Osborne. 
Death of Henry Wolilleb (fjora the German of 
Von Auersperg) 703 

Savage, Minot Judson. 

Life from Death 909 

Life in Death 910 

Light on the Cloud yio 

Saxe, John Godfrey. 
The Superfluous Man 73.5 

Justine, You Love Me Not ! 730 

Schiller, J. C. F. von (German). 

Fame 539 

Haste Not, Rest Not (translated by C. C. Co.x).. 737 

Scott, John. 
Ode on Hearing the Drum 20.5 

Scott, Lady John. 

Lammermoor 740 

Ettriek 740 

Scott, Sir Walter. 

Loehinvar 298 

Scene from " Marmiou ■' 298 

Allen-a-Dale 299 

Ilelvellyn 300 

Jock of Hazeldean gOO 

Coronach 301 

Pibroch of Donuil Dim 301 

Border Ballad 301 

Rebecca's Hymn goi 

Song: The Heath this Night must be My Bed.. 302 
Nora's Vow 302 

Sears, Edmund Hamilton. 

Christmas Song 079 

The Angel's Soujj. OSO 

Sewall, Mrs. Harriet Winslow. 

Why Thus Longing ? 757 

Special Provideuces 7,58 

Seward, Anna. 
Sonuet : December Morning 528 

Shairp, John Campbell. 
Sonnet : Relief 708 

Shakspeare, William. 

Silvia 28 

Sigh No More 28 

Ariel's Song 28 


Shakspeare, William. page 

Man's Ingratitude 28 

Dirge of Imogen 29 

Tlie Song of Winter 29 

Cloten's Serenade 39 

Sonnets: xviii., xxx., sxxiii., liv., Iv., Ix., xc, 

xcviii., ex., cxi., cxvi., exlvi., cxlvii 29, 30, 31 

Ulysses's Advice to Aeliillcs 31 

Tlie Quality of Mercy 33 

Moonliglit and Musie 32 

England 33 

Song from " Twelfth Night" 33 

Henry IV.'s Soliloquy on Sleep 33 

Detached Passages from the Plays 33 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 

Lines on Horace SmiUi 3.52 

The Cloud 431 

Stanzas, Written in Dejection, near Naples 433 

The Fugitives 433 

To a Skylark 433 

Ode to the West Wind 43.5 

I Arise from Dreams of Thee 436 

Invocation 436 

Good-night 436 

One Word is Too Often Profaned 437 

A Lament 437 

On a Faded Violet 437 

Adonais : An Elegy on the Death of Jonn Keats. 437 

Invocation to Nature 433 

Sonnet 433 

Dedication to His Wife 431 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 43.5 

Lines to a Reviewer 436 

Shenstone, William. 
From "The School-mistress". 
Written at an Inn at Henley . 


Sheridan, Richard Brinsley. 

Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed.- 237 

Song, from " The Duenna " 337 

Shirley, James. 
Death's Conquests. 


ShurtlefT, William S. ■ 
The Way 556 

Sidney, Sir Philip. 

On Dying 16 

True Beauty Virtue Is 17 

Eternal Love 17 

On Obtaining a Prize at a Tournament 17 

Invocation to Sleep 17 

A Ditty 17 

Sigourney, Lydia Huntly. 

August 11 : The Blessed Rain 418 

Indian Names 419 

Sillery, Charles Doyne. 
She Died in Beauty 


Simmons, Bartholcmew. 

Song of a Returned E.\ilc 

From "Stanzas on Tliomas Hood' 
From "The Mother of the Kings' 


Simms. William Gilmore. 

The First Day of Spring 618 

Freedom of the Sabbath 618 

Solace of the Woods 618 

Simpson, Mrs. Jane Cross. 
Go when the Morning Shineth . 


Smith, Alexander. 

A Day in Spring 835 

A Day in Summer 835 

Her Last Words 835 

Smith, Mrs. Charlotte (Turner). 

To Fortitude 2.35 

To a Young Man entering the World 235 

The Cricket 235 

Smith, Elizabeth Oakes. 

Sonnet : The Unatlained 619 

Sonnet : Poesy 619 

Sonnet: Faith GIU 

Smith, Horace. 
Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition. 3.53 

Moral Cosmetics 3.53 

Sonnet 354 

The First of March 3.54 

Hymn to the Flowers 354 

Smith, James. 

Epigram 339 

The Theatre 330 

To Miss Edgeworth 330 

Smith, Mrs. May Riley. 

Smith, William. 
To My Wife 



Smollett, Tobias George. 

The Tears of Scotland 191 

Ode to Leven-water 193 

Sotheby, William. 

Staffu— Visited 1839. 


Southey, Caroline Bowles. 

Lines on Her Father 387 

The River 388 

To Little Mary 388 

"Sufficient unto the Day is the Evil thereof".. 389 

The Pauper's Death-bed 391 

To a Dying Infant 391 

Oh, Fear Not Thou to Die 393 

Sonnet : To the Mother of Lncretia and Margaret 
Davidson 643 



Southey, Robert. riOE 

Iiifcription liir the Apartment in Chepstow Castle. 37.5 

The Battle of Blenheim 3li0 

Imnioi'tility of Love 320 

A Beautiful Day in Autumn 3'2l 

The Holly-tree 331 

My Libraiy 331 

Night in the Desert 333 

The Dead Friend 333 

Imitated from the Persian 323 

The Morning Mist 333 

Reflections 323 

To William Wordsworth 333 

Southwell, Robert. 

Love's Servile Lot 33 

Times Gu By Turns 33 

Spencer. Hon. "William Robert. 

To the Lady Anne Hamilton 3y.5 

Beth Gelert; or, The Grave ot the Greyhound... 39.5 

Spenser, Edmund. 

From " The Epithalamion "' 10 

Una and the Lion 11 

Prince Arthur 13 

The Ministry of Angels 13 

From the " Hymn in Honor of Beauty " 13 j 

Easter Morning 13 

Miseries of a Court-life 13 

Stoddard, Mrs. R. H. 
On the Campagna 

Spofford, Harriet Prescott. 
A Four-o'clock 


Sprague, Charles. 

The Winged Worshippers 41.5 

The Fourth of July 415 

From '' The Shakspeare Ode" 415 

I See Thee Still 416 

Stanley, Thomas. 
The Deposition. . .. 


Stedman, Edmund Clarence. 

Provencal Lovers 854 

How Old Browu took Harper's Ferry 855 

Sterling, John. 

To a Child 019 

The Man Survives 630 

Prose and Song 030 

Stockton, Mrs. Annis Boudinot. 
Ode to Washington 


Stoddard, Mrs. Lavinia. 
The Soul's Defiance 


Stoddard, Richard Henry. 

Songs Uusung 803 

From the "Proem to Collected Poems" 803 

How arc Songs Begot and Bred ':' 803 

The Country Life 804 


. 804 

story, William "Wetmore. 

Lines on John Lothrop Motley 723 

The Unexpressed 7.53 

Wetmore Cottage, Nahant 7.53 

Sto-we, Harriet Beecher. 

The Other World 706 

Street, Alfred Billings. 

The Nook in the Forest 701 

A Forest Walk 701 

The Bluebird's Song 703 

Music 703 

Strode, 'William. 


Suckling, Sir John. 
Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? 103 

Swain, Charles. 

What it is to Love .585 

The Beautiful Day .585 

Swift, Jonathan. 

From " The Death of Dr. Swift" 134 

Stella's Birthday, 1720 135 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles. 

An Interlude 873 

Love and Death 873 

A M.atch 873 

Sylvester, Joshua. 

Plurality of Worlds 33 

Love's Omnipresence 33 

Symonds, John Addington. 

In the Mentone Graveyard 910 

Seven Sonnets on Death 911 

The Will 912 

Beati Illi 913 

Talfourd, Thomas Noon. 

To the South American Patriots 470 

Love Immortal 470 

Verses on a C'hikl 471 

An Act of Kindness 471 

Sonnet on Wordsworth 472 

Tannahill, Robert. 

The Flower o' Duniblane 324 

The Braes o' Bahiuhither S'24 

Taylor, Bayard. 

Storm-song .....' 807 

A Crimean Episode 807 

The Fight of Paso Del Mar 807 

Taylor, Jane. 
Teaching from the Stars., 



Taylor, Jeremy. 
Thy Kiiii;"duin Ciniie. 

Taylor. Sir Henry. 


. 10.5 

On Edward Ernest Villiers 56.5 

What Makes a Hero ? 5B5 

Extract from "Philip Van Artevelde" 5(iH 

Greatness and Success 507 

Artevelde's Soliloquy 567 

Artevelde and Eleua 567 

Taylor, Thomas. 

Ode to the Risin"; Sun 351 

Tennant, William. 
Description of Maggie Lauder . 


Tennyson, Alfred. 

From the Lines on Bulwer 605 

Edward Gray 680 

(io Not, Happy Day 681 

Welcome to Alexandra 681 

Ask Me No More CSI 

To , after Reading a Life and Letters 083 

Garden Song 083 

l)e Profundis 683 

Bugle Song 683 

Tlie Foolish Virgins 681 

Charge of the Light Brigade 084 

Turn, Fortune, Turn Thy Wheel Osi 

Stanzas from " In Memoriam " GS5 

Tears, Idle Tears 088 

From " The Golden Year" OSS 

Tennyson, Charles (see Turner). 

Tennyson, Frederick. 

Tlie Blackbird 610 

Sounet 617 

Thackeray, William Makepeace. 

Little Billee .' 696 

At the Church Gate G',16 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 090 

The Mahogauy-tree 097 

Thaxter, Mrs. Celia. 

Song S(;3 

The Sand-piper 863 

Thorn, William. 

The Mitherless Bairn 409 

Dreamiugs of the Bereaved 409 

Thompson, John Randolph. 
Music in Camp 

Thomson, James. 
Lines Written at the Age of Fourteen 



The Approach of Spring 166 

Sunrise in Summer 167 

Hymn on the Seasons 167 

The Bard's Song 168 

Rule, Britannia ! 169 

Love of Nature 169 

Sweet Tyrant, Love 581 

Thoreau, Henry David. page 

Smoke in Winter 745 

LTpon the Beach ■ 745 

Thornbury, Walter. 

How Sir Richard Died 824 

The Old Grenadier's Story 834 

Thorpe, Mrs. Rosa Hartwiok. 

Down the Track 

"Curfew Must Not Piing To-night' 



Thurlo'w, Edward Hovel (Lord). 

Sonnet to a Bird 359 

Song to May 359 

Tickell, Thomas. 
On the Death of Addison 141 

Tighe, Mrs. Mary. 

On Receiving a Branch of Mezereon 317 

Written at Killaruey 318 

Tilton, Theodore. 
Sir Marmaduke's Musings 864 

Timrod, Henry. 

Hark to the Shouting Wind 838 

Ode 828 

A Common Thought 838 

From " A Southern Spring " 838 

Sonnets 839 

Timrod, William H. 
Lines to Harry 420 

Tobin, John. 

The Duke Aranza to Juliana 275 

Todhunter, John. 
The First Spring Day : Sonnet 5.56 

Toplady, Augusttis Montague. 

Deathless Principle, Arise ! 234 

Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me 334 

To'wnshend, Chauncy Hare. 

"Judge Not" 587 

" What God hath Cleansed," etc 587 

" His Banner over Me was Love " 588 

"■In My Father's House are many Mansions"... 588 

An Evening Thought 5S8 

On Poetry 588 

May 588 

Concluding Sonnet 588 

Trench, Richard Chenevix. 

Our Fatlier's Home 640 

Be Patient 640 

Sonnet: On Prayer 610 

Spring 641 

Trowbridge, John Townsend. 

Beyond 820 

The Vagabonds 820 



Trumbull, John. ''*<;'= 

From "il'Fin-ul" 337 

Tucker, St. George. 
Days of My Youth 238 

Tuckerman, Henry Theodore. 
Sonnet : Freedom T15 

Tupper, Martin Farquhar. 
Carpe Diem 691 

Turner, Charles (Tennyson). 

Lines on "In ilemoriam " 049 

Morning 040 

Tlie Lattiee at Sunrise 049 

A Brilliant Day 049 

Letty's Globe 650 

Tuttle, Mrs. Emma. 
Tlie First Flwlgling 893 

Tychborn, Chidiock. 
Lines by One in tlie Tower 84 

Uhland, Johann Ludwig (1787-1862). 
Tlic Passage (translated by Mrs. Austin) 4.51 

Vandyne, Mary E. 

Wlien I went Fishing with Dad 940 

Vaughan, Henry. 

Tlie Retreat 107 

The Rainbow 107 

They Are All Gone ! 107 

The Request 108 

Like as a Nurse 108 

Vaux, Thomas (Lord). 
Of a Contented Mind 7 

Vere, Sir Aubrey de. 

Cianmer 393 

Sonnet : Time Misspent 393 

Three Sonnets on Columbus 393 

Diocletian at Salona 394 

Glengariff 394 

Vere, Aubrey Thomas de. 

The True Blessedness 728 

Adolescentulffi Amaverunt te Nimis 738 

Sonnet: How All Things Are Sweet 738 

Very, Jones. 

The Bud Will Soon Become a Flower 713 

Home and Heaven 713 

The Spirit-land 713 

Nature 713 

Our Soldiers' Graves 713 

Villiers, George (Duke of Buckingham\ 

E|iUaph on General Fairfax 503 

Vincent, Charles (French). 
Come, Sunshine, Coine ! 543 

Wakefield, Nancy Priest. tace 

Over the River 801 

From " Heaven " 801 

Walker, William Sidney. 

The Voice of Other Years 

To a Girl in Her Thirteenth Year. 


Wallace, Horace Binney. 
Ode on the Rhine's Returning into Germany from 
France 746 

Waller, Edmund. 
The Message of the Rose. 
On a Girdle 


Waller, John Francis. 

Kitty Neil 074 

Ware, Henry. 

A Thanksgiving Song 4.59 

Resurrection of Christ 459 

Warton, Thomas. 

To Mr. Gray 204 

To the River Lodon 204 

Wasson, David Atwood. 

Ministering Angels to the Imprisoned Soul 786 

All's Well 787 

Wastell, Simon. 
From ''Man's Mortalitv' 


Watts, Alaric Alexander. 

A Remonstrance 518 

Forever Thine 519 

Watts, Isaac, D.D. 

True Riches 130 

Earth and Heaven 130 

From All That Dwell 131 

Joy to the World 131 

Webster, Mrs. Augusta. 

To Bloom is then to Wane 913 

The Gift 913 

Webster, John. 

A Dirge 34 

From " The Duchess of Malfl " 34 

Weeks, Robert Kelly. 

Winter Sunrise 898 

Ad Fincm 898 

Welby, Amelia B. 

Twilight at Sea ; A Fragment 779 

The Golden Ringlet 779 

Wentz, George. 

"Sweet Spirit, Hear My Prayer" 903 

No Death '. 903 


Wesley, Charles. face 

The Wn'stler ^ 175 

Come, Let Us Anew 176 

The Only Light 177 

Wesley, John. 
Commit Tlioii .411 Thy Griefs (from tlie German 
of Paul Gerhardt) 173 

Westwood, Thomas. 

The Pet Lamh 739 

Little Bell 730 

White, Henry Kirke. 

Time 377 

Concluding Stanzas of "The Christiad" 377 

To an Early Primrose 877 

White, Joseph Blanco. 

Xiillit and Death : Sonnet 325 

Sonnet, on Hearing Myself for tlic First Time 
called an Old Man, ^t. 50 325 

Whitman, Sarah Helen. 

Lines on Edgar A. Poe 583 

Tlic Last Flowers .583 

Sonnets to Edgar A. Poe 583 

Whitman, Walt. 
From " Tlie Mystic Trumpeter " 755 

Williams, Isaac. pace 

The Departed Good: Sonnet 54y 

Passages from "Leaves of Grass' 


Whitney. Adeline D. T. 
Behind tlie Mask 795 

Whittier, John Greenleaf. 

Mand Mnller 634 

Barbara Frietchie 636 

Mr. Whittier to His Friends 637 

My Two Sisters 637 

The Poet's Portrait of Himself 638 

The Eternal Goodness 638 

Whytehead, Thomas. 
The Second Day of Creation 761 

Wilooz, Carlos. 

A Late Spring in New England 461 

A Vision of Heaven 461 

September 463 

Wilde. Lady. 
Tlie Voice of tlie Poor S42 

Wilde, Richard Henry. 

Sonnet : To the Mocking-bird 412 

Stanzas 412 

Willard, Mrs. Emma C. 
Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 384 

Williams, Helen Maria. 

Sonnet to Hope _ 262 

Trust in Provideuco 262 

Williams, Richard Dalton. 
From the "Lament for Clarence Mangan" 


Willis, Nathaniel Parker. 

Saturday Afternoon 024 

Thirty-iive 625 

Tlie Spring is Here 625 

Acrostic Sonnet on Emilie Marshall 625 

To a City Pigeon 625 

Willson, Foroeythe. 

From Lines to His Wife 874 

The Old Sergeant 874 

Wilson, John (Christopher North). 

From "Address to a Wild-deer" 374 

Hymn 374 

The Evening Cloud 375 

The Shipwreck 375 

Wilson, William. 
Sabbath Morning in the Woods 570 

Winchelsea, Countess of. 
From " A Wished-for Retreat " 140 

Winter, William. 

The Ballad of Constauce 860 

Orgia S6<J 

The Golden Silence ■ S70 

Wither, George. 

Companionship of the Muse .50 

The Heavenly Father and His Erring Child 51 

Vanished Blessings 51 

I Will Sing as I Shall Please 51 

Shall I, Wasting in Despair .52 

Lines on William Browne .5o 

Wolcot, John. 

On Dr. Johnson 221 

Epigram on Sleep 221 

The Pilgrims and the Pease 221 

Wolfe, Charles. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 413 

If I Had Thought 414 

Go, Forgot Me 414 

Woodworth, Samuel. 
The Old Oaken Bucket 377 

Woolson, Abba Goold. 
Carpe Diem 88S 

Wordsworth, William. 

To Dafiodils 282 

To the Cuckoo -z^ 

Ode to Duty 283 

She was a Phantom of Delight 283 

Character of the Happy Warrior 284 


Wordsworth, William. page 

The Fountain 2&5 

From Lines composed near Tiutern Abbey 285 

Laodamia 287 

Ode on Immortality 289 

Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogs; 291 

The Sonnet's Scanty Plot 291 

Scorn Not the Sonnet 293 

Evening 293 

To Sleep 292 

The World is Too Much with Us 293 

The Favored Ship 293 

The Mind that Builds for Aye 293 

Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1803 293 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 293 

Philoctetes 293 

Thy Art be Nature 293 

London, 1803 293 

We Must be Free, or Die 293 

October, 1803 294 

On Personal Talk (in Four Sonnets) 294 

Lines on Uartley Coleridge 49(1 

Wotton, Sir Henry. 

On His Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 39 

The Happy Life 39 

Wyatt, Sir Thomas. pagk 

Pleasure Mixed with Pain 6 

Of Dissembling Words 6 

Free at Last 6 

Youl, Edward. 
A Spring Song 530 

Young, Andrew. 
The Happy Laud 658 

Young, Edward. 

Invocation to the Author of Light 135 

The Departed Live 136 

Homer, Milton, Pope 136 

Welcome to Death 137 

I Trust in Thee 137 

Humanity of Angels 137 

No Atom Lost 137 

Immortality Deciphers Man 1.37 

Existence of God 138 

Zedlitz, Joseph Christian von (GermanV 
Napoleon's Midnight Review (translated by Theo- 
dore Martin 73S 



©coffrcj) (Hljauccr. 

Cliaucer, the fiither of English poetry, was born about 
the year 1338, probably hi London, and educated at Cam- 
bridge. On arriving: at man's estate, he joined the army 
witli wliich Edward III. was trying to subjugate France. 
Talicn prisoner at Poitiers, Cliaucer, on being released, 
returned to England, and married a sister of the lady 
who became tlic wife of the Duke of Lancaster, better 
known as John of Gaunt. 

King Edward regarded Chaucer with f\ivor, and in 1373 
sent him on a mission to Italy, where he made the ac- 
quaintance of Petrarch, then living at Padua. He was 
employed in other public services, sat in Parliament, 
shared in the downfall of John of Gaunt, fled to Hol- 
land, returned home in 1489, abandoned public life, and 
devoted himself to poetical composition. At the age of 
sixty-four he began the "Canterbury Tales," a picture 
of life in the fourteenth century. He afterward 
wrote "The Romaunt of the Rose," "Troilus and Cres- 
scidc," "The Legende of Good ^Yomen," "Chaucer's 
Dream," "The Flower and the Leaf," "The House of 
Fame" (richly paraphrased by Pope), etc. 

The accentuation in Chaucer's verse, by a license since 
abandoned, is different in many instances from that of 
commcn speech. For example, in 

"Full weU she sange the service divuie," 

mnijd is two syllables, while service furnishes an ex- 
ample of a transposed accent. This poetical license of 
transposing an accent is not uncommon in the later 

Chaucer appears to have been of a joyous and hajipy 
temperament, generous and affectionate. He had that 
intense relish for the beauties of Nature so characteris- 
tic of the genuine poet. His works abound with enthu- 
siastic descriptions of spring, the morning hour, the 
early verdure of groves, green solitudes, birds and flow- 
ers. Nature, courts, camps, characters, passions, mo- 
tives, are the topics with wliich he deals. He was op- 
posed to the priests, whose hypocrisy lie unmasked. A 
vigorous temperament, a penetrating, observing intel- 
lect, and a strong, comprehensive good -sense, are the 
instruments with which he fashions his poetical mate- 
rials. Spenser refers to him as 

"That renowned Poet, 
Dan Cliancer, well of English undefiled. 
On Fame's eternal beadroll worlhy to be fyled." 

In the following extracts the orthography is partially 
modernized. Where the change would impair either the 
measure or the spirit of the passage, the original spelling 
is retained. 


Fkom "The Fi.ou-rK and the Leaf." 
When that Plioebiis his chair of gold so high 
Had whirli?!! up the starry sky aloft. 
And in the Bull was entered certainly ; 
When showers sweet of rain descended soft, 
Causing the ground, feolc' times and oft, 
Up for to give many a wholesome air: 
And every plaint was y-cloth6d fair 

With new4 green, and makcth sniall<5 flowers 
To spriugea here and there in field and mead : 
So very good and wholesome he the showers 
That it reneweth that was old and dead 
In winter time; and ont of every seed 
Springeth the herb^, so that every wight 
Of this season wexeth glad and light ; 

* Many ; German, vicl. 


And I, so gladdd of the season sweet, 
\yas liappdd thus : Upon a certain night 
As I lay in my bed, sleep full unmeet 
Was unto me ; hut why that I ne might 
Rest I ne wist, for there n' 'as' earthly wight, 
As I suppose, had more of hertz's ease 
Tliau I, for I u' 'ad'' sickness nor disease. 

Wherefore I marvel greatly of myself 
That I so long withouten sleepiS lay, 
And np I rose three hours after twelf, 
About the springing of the day.' 
And on I put my gear and mine array, 
And to a pleasant grov<5 1 'gan pass, 
Long ere the suund bright uprisen was, 

In which were oakds great, str.iight as a line, 
Under the which the grass so fresh of hue 
Was newly sprong ; aud an eight foot or nine 
Every tree well fro his fellow grew 
With br.anches broad laden with leavds new, 
That sprougeu out agen the sonnd-shcen, 
Some very red, aud some a glad light green, 

Which, as mcthought, was right a pleasant sight ; 

And eke the birdes souge for to hear 

Would luive rejoiced any earthly wight, 

Aud I, that couth' not yet iu no niauere 

Hear<i the nightingale of all the year. 

Full busily hearkened with heart and ear. 

If I her voice perceive could .any whore. 

And at the last a path of little brede* 

I found, that greatly had not usiSd be ; 

For it forgrow<5n° was with grass and weed. 

That well uuneth' a wight(5 might it see. 

Thought I, "This path somewhither goeth, pardi? !" 

Aud so I followed, till it me brought 

To right a pleasant herbcr* well y-wrought, 

That was y-benchdd ; and with tnrfes new 
Freshly y-tnrved, whereof the green<S grass 
So small, so thick, so short, so fresh of hue. 
That most like uuto green wool wot I it was. 
The hedge also that ycde there in compass,' 
And clost^d in alliS the green herbere, 
With sycamore was set and eglatere." 

> Was lint. 2 nnd not 

3 Line of imperfi-ct meaeiire in the copies. Some editors in- 
sert tlie e|)illiet rjUutsmne. 
* Had nut been able. ^ Breaiith. 

fl Overgrown. ' Srarcely. 

** Arbor. e Timt went round about. 

1' Eghiuluie, or (accordin;^ to Warton) sweetbrier. 


To you, my purse, aud to none other wight 

Complaiuo I, liir ye be my lady dere ; 

I am sorry now that ye bo light. 

For certes yo now make me heavy cheer ; 

Me were as lefe laid upon a here 

For which uuto your mercie thus I crie, 

Be heavy agaiue, or els mote I die. 

Now vouchsafe this or it be night. 

That I of you the blissful sowue may here, 

Or see your color like the 8unn6 bright, 

That of yelowness had never pere. 

Ye be my life, ye be my hort(S's store, 

Queeue of comfort aud of good companie. 

Be heavy agaiue, or els mote I die. 

Now purse that art to me my liv<)'s light 
Aud saviour, as downe iu this world here. 
Out of this towu6 helpe me by your might, 
Sith that you woll not be my treasure. 
For I am shave as uere as any fiere, 
But I pray unto yonr curtesie, 
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 


A good man there was of religioun, 

That was a poor(5 Parson of a town ; 

But rich he was of holy thought aud work, 

He was also a learned man, a clerk. 

That Christ(?s gospel trudly would preach ; 

His parishens devoutly would he teacb. 

Benign he was and wonder diligent. 

And iu .adversity full patient; 

And such he was y-prov<5d' oft(5 sith^s,' 

Full loth were him to curson for his tithes;' 

But rather would he given, out of doubt, 

Unto his poord p.arishens about, 

Of his offring and eke of his substance ; 

He couth in little thing h.ave suffi.sauce. 

Wide was his parish, aud houses far asunder; 

But ho ne kfte not, for rain nc thunder, 

In sickness nor in mischief to visite 

The furthest in his parish, much and lite,* 

> ris the old English prefix of the past participle ; Saxon and 
German fje. 

2 Oftentimes. 

3 Theeor iof the plural in old poetry is always sounded when 
the verse requires it. 

« Great and small. 


Upon his ft-et, mid iu liis liaiid a staff. 
This uoble eiisavuple to his sheep lie gaf/ 
That first he wrought and afterward he tanght. 
Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, 
And this figure he added eUe thereto, — 
That, if gold rustf, what should irou do ? 
For, if a priest be foul on whom we trust. 
No wonder is a lew&P man to rust. 

» * * * ^ * 

Ho was a shepherd, and no mercenary ; 
And, though ho holy were and virtuous. 
He was to sinful man not dispitous,^ 
Ne of his speeche dangerous ue digue,* 
But ill his teaching discreet and benign. 
To draweii folk to heaven by fairness 
By good eiisample, this was his business. 
But, it were any person obstinate. 
What so ho were, of high or low estate. 
Him would he snibben^ sharply for the noniSs." 
A better priest I trow there uowhcro none is. 
He waited after no pomp ue revereuce, 
Ne maU^d liim a spiced' conscience ; 
But Clii'ist«5s lore and his apostles twelve 
He taught, but first he followd it liiiiiselve. 


In one of the Cottoiiian MSS. (junon^ those destroyed by fire) 
tills poem was described .is m:\de by Cliaucer " uptm llis deatli- 
iied, iu his great anguish." The versions differ considei'abiy. 

Fly fro the i)ress and dwell with soothfastuess;' 
Suffice unto thy good though it be small: 

For hoard hath hate, aud climbing tickleness,'' 
Press h.ath envy, and weal is blent'" over-all. 
Savour no more than thee bchovd." shall. 

Kcde'^ well thyself that other folk canst redo ; 

And Truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.'^ 

PaiiiiS thee uot each crooked to redress 
In trust of her that turueth as a ball ; 

Great rest standcth in little bii.syness. 
Beware also to spurn against an a« 1 ; 
Strive not as doth a crockd" with a wall ; 

Deemd'' thyself that deemest others' deed ; 

And Truth thee shall deliver, it is uo drede. 

' Gave. 3 Lay, nnlennied. 

3 Without pity. * Domineering nor disdainful. 

* Chccl^, reprove, s?iMb. ^ For Ihe nonce. 

' Disguised, as food by spices. * Truth. 

= Instability. lo Blind. 

'1 Thau shall be for thy good. 12 Counsel. 

13 Doubt. " Piece of china. >* Judge. 

That thee is sent, receive iu biixomness;' 
The wrastliug of this world asketh a fall. 

Here is no home, here is but wilderness. 

Forth, pilgrim! Forth, beast, out of thy stall I 
Look up on high, and thauk6 God of all. 

\Vaiv4^ thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lead ; 

Aud Truth thee shall deliver, it is uo drede. 

©otucr. — Caibour. — Cjibgatc. 

Contemporary with Chaucer, but several years his 
junior, was John Gower (132.5-140S), a wealthy "es- 
quire" of Kent. The grave and sententious turn of his 
poetry won for him from Chaucer and others the appella- 
tion of tlie " Moral Gower," which has become almost a 
synoii}me for dulncss. He gives little evidence of the 
genuine atflatus. 

The Scottish poet, John Barbour, horn about the year 
1310, grew up in the midst of exciting political events. 
He was archdeacon of Aberdeen, and in 137.5, when Rob- 
ert ni. had been king five years, he was occupied iu writ- 
ing a metrical history, c.illed "The Bruce," of Robert I. 
It is in the octosyllabic rhymed couplet of the old ro- 
mances, and is ranked as authentic history. 

The most notable of Chaucer's younger contempora- 
ries was John Lydgate (13T3-14C0). He was named from 
his birth in Sutfolk, at the village of Lydgate, and became 
a Benedictine monk. His "Ballad of London Lyckpen- 
ny," relating the ill success of a poor countrymau iu the 
London Courts of Law, is a remarkable specimen of hu- 
morous verse. Both Gray and Coleridge seem to have 
been impressed by the merits of Lydgate. 


Thus it fell upon a night, 
When there was naught but starrie light, 
She was vanished right as she list. 
That no wight but herself wist, 
Aud that was at midnight tide. 
The world was still on every side. 
With open hand and foot all bare ; 
Her hair too spread, she 'gau to fare ; 
Upon her clothfe girt she was. 
And spechelcss, upon the, 
She glode forth, as an adder doth. 


Ah, Freedom is a nolde thing ! 
Freedom makes man to have liking f 

' Cheerfulness, 

2 Cast away. 

3 Enjoyment. 


FreecTom all solace to man gives ; 
He lives at ease that freely lives ! 
A noble heart may have naue ease, 
Ne ellis nocht' that may liira please, 
Gif freedom failetli ; for free liking 
Is yearned" o'er all other thing ; 
Nor he that aye has lived free 
May nocht know well the property,' 
The anger, ne the wretched doom 
That is coiiplit to foul thirldom. 
But, gif he had assayed it. 
Then all perqnere'' he should it wit. 
And should think freedom mair to prize 
Thau all the gold in the warld that is. 



To Loudon once my steps I bent. 

Where truth in nowise should be faint; 

To Westminster-ward I forthwith went. 
To a Man of Law to make complaint, 
I said, "For Mary's love, that holy saint. 
Pity the poor that would iiroceed !" 
But for lack of Moucy I could not speed. 

And as I thrust the press among. 

By froward chance my hood was gone, 

Yet for all that I stayed not long 
Till to the King's Bench I was come. 
Before the Judge I kneeled anon, 
And prayed him for God's sake take heed. 
But for lack of Money I might not speed. 

Beneath them sat Clerks a great rout. 
Which fast did write by one assent ; 

There stood up one and cried about 
"Richard, Robert, and Jolm of Kent!" 
I wist not well what this man meant, 
He cried so thickly there indeed. 
But he that lacked Money might not speed. 

Unto the Common Pleas I yode^ tho, 
WluTe sat one with a silken hood ;° 

I tlid him reverence, for I ought to do so, 
And told my case as well as I conld. 
How ray goods were defrauded me by falsehood. 

1 Nor anything else. 
3 The kind of cxisteuce. 
' Went. 



B.adge of a 6erge(iut-at-law. 

I got not a mum of his mouth for my lueed. 
And for lack of Money I might not speed. 

Unto the Rolls I gat me from thence. 
Before the clerkes of the Chaucerie, 

Where many I found earuing of peuee, 
But none at all ouce regarded me. 
I gave them my plaint ui>on my kuee ; 
They liked it well when they had it read, 
But lacking Money I could not be sped. 

lu Westminster Hall I fouud out one 

Whicli went in a long gown of ray;' 
I crouched and kneeled before him ; anou. 

For Mary's love, for help I him jiray. 

"I wot not what thou meau'st," gau he say; 

To get me thence he did mo bedc ; 

For lack of Money I could not speed. 

Within this Hall, neitlier rich nor yet i)oor 

Would do for me aught although I should die : 

Which seeing, I got me out of the door 
Where Flemings began ou me for to cry, 
"Master, what will you copen^ or buy? 
Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read ? 
Lay down your silver, and here you may speed." 

Then I conveyed mc into Kent ; 

For of the law would I meddle no more. 

Because no man to mo took intent, 
I dight me to do as I did before. 
Now Jesus, tliat in Bethlehem was bore. 
Save Loudon, and send true lawyers their meed I 
For wlioso wants Money with them shall not 

ilames 5. of Scotlanii. 

This Scottish prince (1394-1437) was intercepted at 
sea, and made prisoner by Henry IV. in 140.5. Durinj;' 
his captivity he produced one of the most graceful poems 
that exist in old English. The "King's Quhair" (tliatis, 
quire, or little book) has for its main incident the discov- 
ery of a lady walking in the prison garden, to whom lie 
becomes attached. This beauty is supposed to have been 
Lady J.ine Beaufort, who became his wife, and eventually 
Queen of Scotland, and mother of the royal line of the 
subseciueut Stuarts. King James returned to Scotland 
after the death of Henry V.,was crowned at Scone in 
1434, and was for twelve years a wise ruler, endeavoring 
to establish law and order among turbulent nobles, aud 
to assure the rights and liberties of his people; but his 
firm upholding of justice led to his assassiuatiou at Perth 
in 1437. 

' A r.iyed or striped cloth. = (Dutch "kooiien"),bny. 



Wliorcaa in ward fall oft I would bewail 
My deadly life, full of paiu aud penance, 

Saying right tbus, '■ What liave I guilt' to fiil 
My froedoui iu this world, aud luy pleasauce ? 
Siu every wight has thereof suffisauce 

That I behold, aud I a creiiture 

Put from all this, hard is ruiue aveiiture! 

'•The bird, the beast, the fish eke in the sea. 
They live iu fiecdoui, ever}- iu his kind, 

Aud I a man, aud lacketh liberty ; 

What shall I sayn, what reason may I find, 
Tliat Fortune should do sof" Thus iu my mind 

My folk^ I would argiie, but all for nought ; 

Was none that might that on my paines rought!' 

Hobcrt (^tni'Mson. 

Henryson (cinn 1425-1507) was the oldest of an im- 
portant group of Seottisli poets, who, at the close of the 
tiftcentli :uid beginning of the sixteenth centuries, *' were 
tilling the North country with music." Admitted iu 
1403 to the newly-founded University of Glasgow, he be- 
came notary public and school-m.ister at Dunfermline. 
In his lifetime the iirt of printing first came into use in 
Enillnnd. He was a writer of ballads ; and his "Robin 
and Mawkiu" is one of the best early specimens of pas- 
toral verse. He also wrote a metrical version of ..Esop's 


In mids of June, that jolly sweet seasouu, 

When that fair Phoebus with his beam^s bricht 

Had dryit up the dew frao dale aud down, 
And all the land made with his gleaui^s licht. 
In ane morning, betwixt mid-day and uicht, 

I rase, aud jmt all sloth and sleep aside, 

.\nd to a wood I went alone, but guide.* 

Sweet was the smell of flowers white aud red, 
The noise of bird^s richt delicious ; 

The bonghi^s bloomed broad above my head. 
The ground growaud with gersses gracious: 
Of all pleasauee that place wers plenteous, 

With sweet odors and birdes harmony. 

The morning mild, my mirth was mair forthy.' 

> Dune guilty. a My nttendants. 

3 Th:it if, "No one tnnk pity on my suffeiiii^'s." Itought, 
|):i«t tense uf rue, in care for. 
• Without a guide. 6 Therefore. 

Me to conserve then frae the sunnds heat, 

Under the shadow of ane hawthorn green 
I leanit down amaug the flowers sweet ; 

Syne cled my head aud closed baitli my een. 

On sleep I fall amaug these bonghds been ; 
And, in my dream, methocht come through the 

The fairest man that ever before I saw. 

His gown was of ane elaith as white as milk. 
His chimeris' was of chambelote purple-browu : 

Plis hood of scarlet bordered weel with silk, 
Unheckdd-wise,'' untill his girdle doun ; 
His bonnet round aud of the anld fiissoun ; 

His beard was white, his ecu was great and grey, 

With locker' hair, whilk over his shoulders lay. 

Ane roll of paper iu his hand he bare. 
Alio swan6s pen stickaud under his ear, 

Ane ink-horn, with ane pretty gilt peunair,' 
Ane bag of silk, all at his belt did bear; 
Thus was he goodly graithit' iu his gear. 

Of stature large, and with a fearfuU face, 

Even where I lay he come ane sturdy pace; 

And said, "God speed, my son;" and I fain 
Of that couth word, ami of his company. 

With reverence I saluted him again, 

" Welcome, father ;" and lie sat down mo by. 
"Displease you nocht, my good raaister, though I 

Demand your birth, your faculty, aud uanie, 

Why ye come here, or where ye dwell at hamo ?" 

"My sou," said he, "I am of gentle blood. 
My uative land is Kome withouteu nay ; 

And iu that town first to the schools I gaed, 
III civil law studied full many a day, 
Aud now my wouniug' is in heaven for aye. 

^Esop I hecht ;' my writing and my wark 

Is couth' and kend" to moiiy a cunning clerk." 

"O maister .Ssop, poet laureate! 

God wot ye are full dear welcome to me ; 

Are ye nocht he that all those Fables wrate 
Which, in eft'ect, suppose they feigndd be. 
Are full of prudence aud morality ?" 

"Fair son," said he, "I am the sauiiu man." 

God wot gif" that my heart was merry than. 

' Sliort li,2:ht gown. 

^ Arrjyed. 
' Am Ciilled. 

- Uiifasteued-wiee. 
* Pen-holder. 
« Dwelling. 
^ Known. 

Known (other form of same verb). '» God knows if. 


Sir ii[l)oinas lUjiatt. 

Among the piincipal successors of Uenryson were Wil- 
liam Dunbar (circa 14C0-15-'0|, Jobn Skeltou (1400?-1539), 
(iavin Douglas ( 1475 - 15:.'2 ), Sir David Ljndsay (1490- 
1557), and Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542), who translated 
many of the Sonnets of Petrarch. He became M.A. of 
Cambridge at seventeen ; was made a gentleman of King 
Henry VIII. *s bedchamber; was knighted in 1537; and 
went as ambassador to the Emperor Charles V. in Spain. 
In the winter of 1540-'41 he was in tlie Tower, cliarged 
with treasonable correspondence with Cardinal Pole. 
Acquitted in 1541, he was again befriended by the king; 
but in the autumn of 1543 he died of a fever, caught in 
riding fast through bad weather to meet au ambassador 
from Charles V. 

.Venomou,s thorns that are so sharp and keen 

Bear llowers, we see, full fresh ami fair of hue. 
Poisou is also imt in medicine, 

And unto man his health doth oft renew. 
The tire that all things eke coiisnnieth clean 

May hurt and heal ; then if that this bo true, 
I trust sometime my harm may be my liealtli, 
Siuce every woe is joined with some wealth. 

Tlironghout the world, if it were sought, 

Fair words enough a man shall find: 
Tliey be good cheap; they cost right nought; 

Their substance is but only wind. 
But well to say, and so to mean, 
That sweet accord is seldom seen. 

Tangled I was in Loves snare. 
Oppressed with pain, torment with care, 
Of grief right sure, of joy full bare. 

Clean in despair by cruelty : 
But ha! ha! lia! full well is nie. 

For I am now at liberty. 

The woful days so full of pain. 
The weary night all spent iu vain. 
The labor lost for so small gain, 

To write them all it will not be : 
But ha! ha! ha! full well is me, 

For I am now at liberty. 
* # * # # 

With feigned words which were but wind, 
To long delays I was assigned ; 

Her wily looks my w its did blind ; 

Tims as she would I did agree: 
But ha! ha! ha! full well is me. 

For I am now at liberty. 

Was never bird tangled iu lime 
That brake away iu better time 
Thau I, that rotteu boughs did climb. 

And had no hurt, but scaped free: 
Now Iia! ha! ha! full well is me. 

For I am now at libertv. 

l)cnrji C)Ott)iavLi, (Ptavl of Surrcn. 

The son of the Duke of Norfolk, the victor of Flodden 
in 1513, Henry Howard (circa 1517-1.546), was from his 
youtli associated with the Court of Henry VIII. in the 
capacity of companion to the Duke of Richmond, a nat- 
ural son of that prince. He was subsequently employed 
in high military commands. But the whole family of 
Howard fell under Henry's hatred, after the execution of 
Queen Catharine, Surrey's sister. He and his father wcrv 
tlirown into the Tower, and eondcnuied on frivolous ac- 
cusations. He was executed in 1.546, the warrant for his 
death being one of the latest signed by Henry VIII., 
then upon his deatli-bed. Surrey was the first translator 
in blank verse of tlie .^neid of Virgil ; he likewise intro- 
duced the Petrarchan sonnet into English literature. 


Laid in my quiet bed, 

In study as I were, 
I saw within my troubled bead 

A heap of thoughts appear; 
And every thought did show 

So lively iu niiue eyes, 
That now I sighed, and then I smiled, 

As cause of thought did rise. 

I saw- the Jittle boy. 

In thought how oft that he 
Did wish of God to 'scape the rod, 

A tall young uiau to be : 
The young mau eke, that feels 

His bones with pains opprest, 
How he would be a rich old man. 

To live and lie at rest. 

The rich old mau that sees 

His cud draw on so sore, 
How he would bo a boy again, 

To live so much tho more ; 


Whereat full oft I smiled, 
To see how all these three, 

From hoy to man, from mau to boy, 
Would chop and chauge degree. 

And musing thus, I think 
The case is very strange, 

Tliat mau from weal to live iu woo 
Doth ever seek to chauge. 

Whereat I sighed and said : 

"Farewell, my wouted joy; 
Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me 

To every little boy ; 
And tell them thus from me, 

Their time most happy is. 
If, to their time, they reasou had 

To know the truth of this." 

itijoinas, Cori) llaiu-. 

Thomas, Lord Vaux (ciVc-u 1510-15.57) of HaiTOwden, 
in Northiimptoushirc, was Captain of the Isle of Jersey 
imder Henry VIII. Tlic following lines were tirst print- 
ed in "The Paradise of Dainty Deviecs," 1576. In neat- 
ness and literary skill they are far above most of the 
contemporary productions. 


When all is done and said, 

Iu the end thus shall you find. 
He most of all doth bathe in bliss, 

That hath a quiet mind; 
Aud, clear from worldly cares. 

To deem cau be content 
The sweetest time iu all his life, 

In thinking to be speut. 

The body subject is 

To fickle Fortune's power. 
And to a million of mishaps 

Is casual every hour : 
Aud Death in time doth chauge 

It to a clod of clay ; 
When as the mind, which is divine, 

Runs never to decay. 

Companion none is like 
Unto the mind alone ; 

For many have been harmed \>y speech. 
Through thinking, few or none. 

Fear oftentimes restraineth words, 
But makes not thought to cease ; 

Aud he si>eaks best that hath the skill 
Wheu for to hold his peace. 

Our wealth leaves us at death ; 

Our kinsmen at the grave ; 
But virtues of the miud unto 

The heavens with us we have. 
Wherefore, for virtue's sake, 

I cau be well content. 
The sweetest time of all my life 

To deem in thinking spent. 

vlnne 3skcui. 

If her poetry be not of the first order, Anne Askew 
(burned at the stake, 1546) deserves to be enrolled amoui;- 
the poets for showing tliat she could practise, in a heroic 
death, wliat she had preached iu verse. She was cruelly 
toi'tured by the minions of Henry VIII. for denying the 
real presence in the eucharist. Prevailed on by Bonner's 
menaces to make a seeming recantation, she qualified it 
with some reserves, which did not satisfy that zealous 
prelate. She was thrown into Newgate, and there wrote 
her poem of " The Fight of Faith." She was condemned 
to be burned alive ; but being so dislocated by the rack 
that she could not stand, she was carried to the stake in 
a chair, and there burned. Pardon had been offered her 
if she would recant ; this she refused, and submitted to 
her fate with the utmost intrepidity. 


Like as the arm^d knight, 

Appointed to the field. 
With this world will I fight. 

And faith shall he my shield. 

Faith is that weapon strong. 
Which will not fail at need ; 

My foes therefore among 
Therewith will I proceed. 

Thou sayst. Lord, whoso knock. 
To them wilt thou attend. 

Undo, therefore, the lock, 
And thy strong power send. 

More enemies now I have 
Thau hairs uiiou my head ; 


Lot them not mo deprave, 
But ligbt thou iu my stead. 

Not oft I use to writo 

In inose, uor yet iu rhyme; 

Yet will I show one sight, 
That I saw iu my time : 

I saw a royal throne, 

Where Justice should have sit ; 
But iu her stead was one 

Of moody, cruel wit. 

Absorpt was rightwisness, 
As by the raging flood ; 

Satan, iu his excess. 

Sucked up the guiltless blood. 

Then thought I, — Jesus, Lord, 
When thou shalt judge us all. 

Hard is it to rect>r(l 

On these men what will fall! 

Yet, Lord, I thee desire, 
For that they do to me. 

Let them not taste the biro 
Of their iniquity. 

Sir ([rbiuorb Dncr. 

Born in the reigu of Henry VIII. {clvca 1.540-1607), Dyer 
livctl till some ycai's after King James's aocessiou to tlie 
English throne. He was a friend of Sir Plnliii Sidney, 
wlio, in his verses, celebrates their intimacy. Dyer was 
educated at Oxford, and was employed in several foreign 
embassies by Elizabeth. He studied elieniistry, and was 
thought to bo a Rosicrueiau. Pnttenham, in his "Art 
of English Poesie" (1589), commends "Master Edward 
Dyer for elegy most sweet, solemn, aiul of high conceit." 
The popular poem, " My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is," 
with additions, is credited in some collections to William 
Byrd (1543-1023), an eminent composer of sacred music, 
lud who published in 1588 a volume of "Psalms, Son- 
nets," etc. Botli Byrd and Josliaa Sylvester seem to 
iiave laid claim to the best parts of Dyer's poem. A col- 
lection of Dyer's writings was printed as late as 1872. 


My mind to me a Ivingdom is! 

Such iH'eseut joys therein I find. 
That it excels all otlicr bliss 

That earth afl'ords or grows Ijy kind: 

Thongh nnieh I want which nuist would have, 
Tet still my min<l forbids to crave. 

No princely jiomp, no wealthy store, 

No force to win tlio victory, 
No w-ily wit to salvo a sore. 

No shape to feed a loving eye ; 
To none of these I yield as thrall: 
For why, my mind doth servo for all. 

I see Low plenty surfeits off. 

And hasty climbers soon do fall; 
I see that those which are aloft, 

Mish.ap doth thi-eaten most of .all ; 
These get witli toil, they keep with fear: 
Such cares my mind could never bear. 

Coutent I live, this is my stay; 

I seek no more than may sufticc ; 
I press to bear no haughty sway ; 

Look, what I lack my mind sui^dies: 
Lo, thus I triumph like a king, 
Couteut with that my mind doth bring. 

Some have too much, yet still do crave: 

I little have, and seek no more. 
They are but poor, thongh unicli they have, 

And I am rich with little store: 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lack, I leave ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's loss; 

I grndgo not at another's gain ; 
No woiddly waves my mind can toss; 

My state at one doth still reniaiu : 
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend ; 
I loathe not life, uor dread my end. 

Some weigh their pleasnre bj' their lust, 
Tlieir wisdom by their rago of will; 

Their treasure is their only trust, 
A cloak(5d craft' their store of skill : 

But all the pleasnre that I find 

Is to maintain a ((uiet miud. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease; 

My conscience clear my chief defense : 
I neither seek by bribes to please, 

Nor by deceit to breed ofl'euse: 
Thus do I live, thus will I die; 
Would all did so, as well as I! 

^ A hidden craftiuess. 


©corgc (Pascoignc. 

Gascoigne (circa 1535-1577), besides being notable as 
one of llie earliest Englisb dramatists, was one of tbe 
earliest writers of Eiiglisli blank verse. He was a native 
of Essex, became a lawyer, was disinlieritcd by bis fatber, 
took foreign military service in Holland under tbe Prince 
of Orange, and displayed great bravery in action. His 
best known work is " Tlie Steel Glass," a satire iu rather 
formal blank verse. 


Sins; lullabies, as women do, 

With which they charm their babes to rest; 
And lullaby can I sing too, 

As womanly as can the best. 
With lullaby they still the cbild, 
And, if I be not much beguiled, 
Full many sranton babes have I 
Which must be stilled with lullaby. 

First Inllaby my youthful years, 

It is now time to go to bed ; 
For crooked age and hoary hairs 

Have wore the haven within mine head. 
With lullaby, then. Youth, bo still. 
With Inllaby content thy will; 
Since courage quails and comes behind. 
Go sleep, and so beguile tliy mind. 

Next lullaby my gazing Eyes, 

Which wonted were to glance ap.iee ; 

For every glass maj' now suffice 
To show the furrows iu my face. 

With lullaby, then, wink awhile ; 

With lullaby your looks beguile ; 

Let no fair face or beauty bright 

Entice you eft' with vain delight. 

And Inllaby my wanton Will, 

Let Reason's rule now rein thy thought. 
Since all too late I fiud by skill 

How dear I have thy fancies bought. 
With lullaby now take thine ease. 
With lullaby tliy doubt appease ; 
For, trust iu this, if thou be still. 
My body shall obey thy will. 

Til us lull.aby, my Youth, mine Eyes, 
My Will, my ware and all that was; 

I can no more delays devise. 

But welcome pain, let pleasure pass. 

- Ag.iin. 

With lullaby now take your leave, 
With lullaby your dreams deceive: 
And when you rise with waking eye, 
Remember then this lullaby. 

€bmunb S|3cnscr. 

The circumstances which prevent our reading Chaucer 
with that facility which is indispensable to pleasure, 
arise from the time in which he lived. But a poet of 
far greater genius, not more than ten years older than 
Sliakspeare, and who lived when English literature had 
passed into its modern form, deliberately chose, by adopt- 
ing Chaucer's obsolete language, to place similar obsta- 
cles in the way of studying bis works. 

Edmund Spenser (chx-a 1553-1599), the son of a gen- 
tleman of good family, but of small estate, was a native 
of London. Educated at Cambridge, he began, almost 
from the moment of his leaving tlit university, to pub- 
lish poems. His lirst book, " The Shepherd's Calendar," 
helped to popularize pastoral poetry in England. His 
sonnets are still among the best iu the langnage. The 
patronage of Sidney and the friendship of the Earl of 
Leicester obtained for him tbe appointment of Secretary 
to Grey, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland. Thus he was fated 
to spend many years of his life iu Ireland, in various of- 
ficial posts, among a race of people with whom he had 
but few interests in common. Not the romantic beau- 
ty of Kilcolman Castle, iu County Cork, with its three 
thousand surrounding acres of forfeited lands of the 
Earls of Desmond, granted to him by Queen Elizabeth, 
could compensate the poet for the loss of more familiar 
if less lovely English scenes ; and a prevailing melan- 
choly and discontent m.ay be observed in most of his 
allusions to his own Ufe-story. 

In 1590 Sir Walter R.ileigh persuaded him to accom- 
pany him to England, and presented him to Queen Eliz- 
alieth,wbo accepted the dedication of that marvellously 
heautiful poem, "The Faery Queene," of which the first 
three books were just finished. During a second visit 
to London, in 1595, the fourth, fifth, and sixth books 
were published, together with a re-issue of tlic preceding 
books. Of the remaining sis books needed to complete 
tbe work, only one canto and a fragment of another 
canto exist. 

Spenser bad long been on ill terms with his Irish 
neighbors. In those days Ireland was not a residence 
propitious for a literary student in quest of tranquillity. 
In 1598 insurrections broke out, and as Spenser was 
Sbcriff of tbe County of Cork for that year, bo was ren- 
dered oy his office a conspicuous mark for the enmity 
of the insurgents. They attacked and burned Kilcol- 
man, and his infant child perished in the flames. These 
were evils too terrible to bo borne by one of Spensei''s 
sensitive temperament. He returned to England, and 
at the beginning of the next year died of a broken heart, 
and in extreme indigence. 

Of Spenser, as a poet, Campbell says : " We shall no- 
where find more airy and expansive images of visionary 
things, a sweeter tone of sentiment, or a finer flush ia 



tbe colors of language, than in this Rubens of Englisli 
poetry. Tliougli his story grows desultory, tlie sweet- 
ness and grace of his manner still abide by him. He 
is like a spealier whose tones continue to be pleasing 
though he spealc too long." 


This pure and noble sponsal tribute, the most remarkable in 
tbe hinguage, was written by Spenser to welcome his own l)ride 
to his Irish home. It places him among tl>e first of lyric poets. 

Wake now, my Love, awake ; for it is time ! 
The rosy moru long since left Titbon's bed, 
All ready to her silver coach to climb, 
And Pha'bus 'gins to show liis glorious 
Hark bow the cheerful birds do chant their lays, 

And carol of Love's praise ! 
The merry lark her matins sings aloft, 
The thrush replies, the mavis descant plays, 
The onsel shrills, the ruddock' warbles soft; 
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent. 

To this day's merriment. 
All! my dear Love, why do ye sleep thus long. 
When nieeter were that ye should now awake, 
T' await the coming of your joyous make. 
And hearken to the birds' love-learn(5d song 

Tbe dewy leaves among ? 
For tliey of joy and pleasance to you sing. 
That all the woods them answer, and their echo 

My Love is now awake out of her dreams. 
And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were 
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly 

More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. 
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 

Help quickly her to diglit : 
But first come ye fair Hours," which were begot, 
III Jove's sweet paradise, of day and night ; 
Which do the seasons of the year allot, 
And all that ever in this world is fair 

Do make and still repair. 
And ye three handmaids of tbe Cyprian queen," 
The whicli do still adoru her beauty's pride, 
Help to adorn my beautifnllest bride ; 
And as ye her array, still throw between 

Some graces to be seen : 

' Redbreast. Fh-st Engbsh " rnddnc,"frnm "rndc,"rcd. 

5 Goddesj^es of the changing seasons of the year or d;iy. In 
Greek mythology they were thl-ee — Eauomia, Good Order; 
Dikt', Nalnral .Justice ; and Eirene, Peace. 

' The Graces— Aglaia, Radiant Beauty ; Euphrosyne, Cheer- 
ful Sense ; Thalia, Abounding Joy. 

And as ye use to Venus, to her sing, 
The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo 

Now is my Love all ready forth to come. 
Let all tbe virgins therefore well await ; 
And ye fresh boys that tend upon her groom, 
Prepare yourselves, for he is coming strait. 
Set all your things in seemly good array, 

Fit for so joyful day : 
The joyful'st day that ever sun did see ! 
Fair Sun, shew forth thy favorable ray, 
And let thy lifcful heat not fervent be, 
For fear of burning her sunshiny face. 

Her beauty to disgrace. 
O fairest Phoebus, father of the Muse, 
If ever I did honor thee aright. 
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight. 
Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse, 
But let this day, let this one day be mine. 

Let all the rest be thine! 
Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, 
That all tbe woods shall answer, and their echo 

Hark ! How the minstrels 'giu to shrill aloud 
Their merry music that resounds from far, 
The pipe, the tabor, and tbe trembling croud. 
That well agree withouten breach or jar. 
But most of all tbe damsels do delight 

When the}' their timbrels smite, 
And thereunto do dance and carol sweet, 
That all the senses they do ravish quite; 
The whiles the boys run up and down the street. 
Crying aloud with strong coufus&l noise, 

As if it were one voice : 
"Hymen, lo Hymen, Hymen," they do shout. 
That even to the heavens their shout itig shrill 
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill; 
To which the people standing all about, 
As ill approvanCe do thereto applaud. 

And loud advance her laud. 
And evermore they " Hymen, Hymen" sing. 
That all the woods them answer, and their echo 

Lo! where she comes along with portly' pace, 
Like Plnebe,- from her cb.aniber of the east. 
Arising forth to run her mighty race. 
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 

' Of good carriage. 

2 A name of Diana, sister of Phffibns : the Mocm, sister of the 
Sun. The word means "the pare shining one." 



So well it her beseems, that ye would weeu 

Some angel she had been ; 
Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire, 
Sprinkled with peari, and pcariing flowers atween, 
Do like a golden mantle her attire, 
And being crowudd with a garland green, 

Seem like some maiden cineen. 
Her modest eyes abashed to behold 
So many gazers as ou her do stare. 
Upon the lowly ground affixed are : 
Nc dare lift up her countenance too bold, 
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, 

So far from being inond. 
Nathless do yo still loud her praises sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see 
So fair a creature in your town before? 
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she. 
Adorned with beauty's grace and virtue's store ? 

* * # *f if * 

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 
The inward beauty of her lively spriglit, 
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree. 
Much more then would ye wonder at that siglit, 
And stand astonished, like to those which red' 

Medusa's mazeful head. 
Tliere dwells sweet Love and constant Chastity, 
I'nspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood, 
Regard of Honor, and mild Modesty ; 
Tliere Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne, 

And giveth laws alone, 
The which the base affections do obey, 
And yield their services unto her will ; 
Ne thought of things uncomely ever may 
Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill. 
Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures, 

And unreveal^d pleasures, 
Tlien would ye wonder, and her praises sing, 
Tbat all the woods should answer, and your echo 

Open the temple-gates nnto my Love, 
Open them wide, that she may enter in, 
Ami all the posts adorn as doth behove. 
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim. 
For to receive this saint with honor due, 

That Cometh in to yon. 
With trembling steps and humble reverence 
She Cometh in, before th' Almighty's view : 
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience, 

' Saw. 

Whenso yo come into those holy places, 

To humble yonr proud faces. 
Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake. 
The which do endless matrimony make: 
And let the roariug organs loudly play 
The praises of the Lord in lively notes; 

The whiles, with hollow throats. 
The choristers the joyous anthem sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. 

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands. 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks 
And blesses her with his two h.appy hands. 
How the red roses flush up in lier cheeks. 
And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain. 

Like crimson dyed in grain : 
That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remain. 
Forget their service and about her fly. 
Oft peeping In her face, that seems more fair 

The more they on it stare ! 
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground. 
Are governed with goodly modesty 
Til at sufl'ers not one look to glance awry, 
Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
Why blush ye. Love, to give to me your hand, 

The pledge of all our band ? 
Sing, ye sweet angels, AUelnya sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 


From the " Faery Qdeene," Book I., Canto III. 

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way. 

From her unhasty beast she did aliglit ; 

And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 

In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; 

From her fair head her fillet she undight. 

And laid her stole aside : her angel's face. 

As the great eye of Heaven, shiudd bright, 

And made a sunshine in the shady place ; 

Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace : 

It fortnui5d, out of the thickest wood 

A ramping lion rushed suddenly. 

Hunting full greedy after salvage blood : 

Soon as the royal virgin he did spy, 

With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. 

To have at once devoured her tender corse :' 

' Cors'. is often applied to the liviog body. 



But to the prey whcu as lie drew more iiigb, 

His l)lootIy rage assuaged with remorse, 

And, with the sight amazed, forgat his furious force. 

Instead thei-eof he kissed her weary feet, 
And licked her lily hands ivith fawning tougne ; 
As lie her wronged innocence did weet.' 
Oh, how can beauty master the most strong, 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
Whose yielded pride and proud submission. 
Still dreading death, when she had marked long. 
Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion ; ». 
And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. 

" The lion, lord of every beast in field," 

Quoth she, '■ his jirinccly puissance doth abate. 

And mighty proud to humble weak does yield. 

Forgetful of the liuugiy rage, which late 

Him pricked, iu jiity of my sad estate: — 

But he, my lion, and my noble loid,^ 

How does he find in cruel heart to hate 

Her, that him loved, and ever most adored 

As the god of my life ? why hath he mo abhorred ?'' 

Redounding tears did choke th' en<l of her plaint, 
AVhich softly echoed from tlie neighbor Avood; 
And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, 
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood ; 
With pity calmed, down fell his angry mood. 
At last, ill heart shutting up her ))ain. 
Arose the virgin born' of heavenly brood. 
And to her snowy p.alfrey got again. 
To seek her strayed champion if slje ndght attain. 

The lion would not leave her desolate, 

But with her went along, as a strong guard 

Of her chaste person, and a, faithful mate 

Of her sad troubles and misfcu'tnnes hard : 

Still, when she slept, he kept lioth watch and ward ; 

And, when she waked, ho waited diligent. 

With humble service to her will prepared : 

From her fair eyes ho took conimaiul<^nu'nt. 

And ever by her looks conceived her intent. 


liooK I., Canto VII. 

At last she ehancijd by good hap to meet 
A goodly knight, fair marching by the way, 

• Perceive. 

^ Ttie Ked Cross Kniirht (Ilnlinese) hi\d been seduced from 
lier side by the \vitcli Diie.'sn (F;ilsehood), 

Together with his squire, arrayed meet : 
His glitteriug armor shiu^d far away, 
Like glancing light of Phcebus brightest ray ; 
From top to too no place appeart^d bare. 
That deadly dint of steel endanger may: 
Athwart his breast a bauldrick brave he ware. 
That shined, like twinkling stars, with stones most 
precious rare. 

And, in the midst thereof, one precious stone 
Of wondrous worth, and eke of wondrous mights, 
Shaped like a lady's head, exceeding shone, 
Like Hesperus amongst the lesser lights, 
And strove for to amaze the weaker sights : 
Thereby his mortal blade full comely hung 
In ivory sheath, y-carved with curious slights,' 
Whose hilts were burnished gold; aud handle strong 
Of mother-pearl, and buckled with a golden tongue. 

His haughty helmet, horrid all Avith gold, 
Both glorious brightness and great terror bled : 
For all the crest a dragon did enfold 
With greedy iiaws, and over all did spread 
His golden wings; his dreadful hideous Iwad, 
Close couched on the be.aver,'' scenic d to throw 
From tlamiug mouth bright sparkles fiery red. 
That sudden horror to faint hearts did show; 
And scaly tail was stretched adown his back full 

Upon the top of all his lofty crest, 

A bunch of hairs discolored diversely, 

With sprinkled jiearl and gold full richly dressed, 

Did shake, and seemed to dance for jollity ; 

Like to an almond-tree y-mounted high 

On top of green Selinis' all alone. 

With blossoms brave bedecked daintily ; 

Whose tender locks do tremble ev.ery one 

At every little breath under heaven is blown. 

His warlike shield all closely covered was, 
No might of mortal eye be ever seen ; 
Not made of steel, nor of enduring brass 
(Such earthly metals soon consumed been). 
But all of diamond perfect, pure, and clean 
It framed was, one massy Entire mould. 
Hewn out of adamant rock with engines keen, 
That point of spear it never piercen could. 
No dint of direful sword divide the substance 

1 Devices. 

" The pnrt of n hohnet that covers the face. 

3 Seliuis, in Sicily. 



Tlie same to ^vigbt be never vont tlisdosc, 
But wlieu as monsters huge lie would dismay, 
Or daunt unequal armies of bis foes, 
Or wbeu the tijiug beaveus be would affray: 
For so exceeding sboiie bis glistering ray, 
Tbat Phoebus' golden face bo did attaint,' 
As when a cloud bis beams doth overlay ; 
And silver C'yuthia \rcx<5d pale and faint. 
As when her face is stained with magic arts con- 

No magic arts hereof had any might, 
Nor bloody words of bold enchanter's call ; 
But all tbat was not such as seemed in sight 
Before tbat shield did fade, and sudden fall ; 
And, when him list the rascal routs' appal, 
Men into stones therewith be could transmew,' 
And stones to dust, and dust to naught at all ; 
And, when him list the prouder looks subdue, 
He would them, gazing, blind, or turn to other hue. 

Book IL, Casto VIII. 

And is there care in heaven ? And is there love 
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, may comiiassion of their evils move ? 
Tlicre is : — else much more wretched were the case 
Of men than beasts. Bnt oh ! tb' exceeding grace 
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so. 
And all his works with mercy doth embrace, 
That blessed angels be sends to and fro. 
To serve to wicked man, to servo bis wicked foe ! 

How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
To come to succor ns that succor want ! 
How oft do they with golden piuions cleave 
Tlie flitting skies, like tlying pursuivant, 
Against foul fiends to aid us militant ! 
Tlioy for us fight, tliey watch and duly ward. 
And their bright squadrons round about us plant; 
And all for love and nothing for reward : 
Ob, wliy should heavenly God to men have such 
regard ? 


Tliereof it comes tbat tliese fair souls which have 
Tlie most resemblance of that heavenly light. 
Frame to themselves most beautiful aud brave 

* Obecnre. 

' The rabble. 

* Transmute. 

Their fleshly bower, most fit for their delight, 
And tlie gross matter by a soveraiu might 
Temjier so trim, tbat it may well be seen 
A iialace fit for such a virgin queen. 

So every spirit, as it is most pure. 

And bath in it the more of heavenly light, 

So it the fairer body dotli procure 

To habit in, aud it more fairly digbt 

With cheerful grace and amiable sight ; 

For of the sonl the body form doth take ; 

For soul is form, and doth the body make. 


Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day 

Didst make thy triumph over death aud sin, 

And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away 

Captivity thence captive, us to win ; 

Tills joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, 

And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die, 

Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin. 

May live forever in felicitj- : 

And tbat thy love we weighing worthily 

May likewise love Thee for the same again : 

Aud for thy sake, that rfll like dear didst buy, 

With love may one another entertain. 

So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought ; 

Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught. 


These lines, fr«im *' Mother Hubbard's Tnle," though not 
printed till 1561, seem to have refeieuce to that part of Spen- 
ser's life when he was a suitor for court favor. He here drops 
liis antique phraseology, and s'ves expression to earnest per- 
sonal feeling in the plain Ecglisii of his day. 

So pitiful a thing is Suitor's state ! 
Most miserable man, whom wicked Fate 
Hath brought to Court, to sue for "had I wist,"' 
Tbat few have fonud, and many one hath missed ! 
Full little knowest thou, tbat hast not tried, 
What hell it is in sueing long to bide ; 
To lose good days that might be better spent ; 
To waste long nights in pensive discontent ; 
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; 
To feed on hope ; to jiine with fear and sorrow ; 
To have thy Prince's grace, yet want her Peers'; 
To have thy asking, yet wait many years ; 

' Interpreted to mean "patronage," from the customary ex- 
pression of patrons to their suitors, "Had I wist, I might have 
done so and so." 



To fret thy soul with crosses aud with cares; 
To eat thy heart throiigli comfortless despairs ; 
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run. 
To speud, to give, to want, to he undone. 
Unhappy wight, horn to disastrous end, 
That dotli his life in so long tendance spend ! 
Whoever leaves sweet home, where mean estate 
In safe assurance, without strife or hate, 
Finds all things needful for contentment meek. 
And will to Court for shadows vaiu to seek, 
Or hope to gnin, himself will a daw try:' 
That curse God send unto mine eucmy ! 

Sir lHaltci- Ualcigl). 

Raleigh (bom 1553, beheaded 1G18) was nearly of like 
age with Spenser. There are forty short poems on mis- 
cellaneous subjects attributed, with tolerable certainty, 
to Raleigh. " The Nymph's Reply," sometimes placed 
among these, will be found hi this volume imder Mar- 
lowe. So small a quantity of verse cannot be regarded 
as adequately representing Raleigh's genius aud power 
in literature. His life was one of the busiest and fullest 
of results on record. From his youth he was a sailor, 
a warrior, and a courtier; but he was also a student. 
Aubrey relates that " he studied most In his sea-voyages, 
when he carried always a trunk of books along with him, 
aud hiid nothing to divert him." From the same source 
we learn that the compaulons of his youth "were bois- 
terous blades, but generally those that had wit." The 
famous Mermaid Club, frequented by Shakspeare, Ben 
Jouson, and the other wits of the day, was founded by 
Raleigh ; who, through his whole life, had a strong sym- 
pathy with literature and learning. His verses are vig- 
orous aud original, "full of splendid courage and a proud 
impetuosity." It is, however. In bis prose writings that 
we must look for the best evidence of his genius. 

Urged by the King of Spain to punish Raleigh for his 
attack on the town of St. Thomas, James I. basely re- 
solved to carry Into execution a sentence sixteen years 
old, which had been followed by an imprisonment of 
thirteen years, and then a release. So Ralclgli was 
brought up before the Court of King's Bench to receive 
sentence, and was beheaded the next morniug. The 
night before, the brave poet, looking at his candle as It 
was expiring in the socket, wrote this couplet : 

"Cowards fear to die; but convage stout, 
Eaiher than live in snuff, will be put out." 

The remarkable poem of "The Lie" is traced in man- 
uscript to 1.593. It exists in a MS. coUcetlou of poems 
in the British Museum of the date 1.59fi. It appeared In 
print with alterations, In "Davison's Poetical Rhapsody," 
second edition, 1608. J. Payne Collier (1807) claims It 
for Raleigh, resting his authority on a manuscript copy 

1 Will prove n jackdaw, a fool. 

"of the time," headed "Sir Walter Wrawly, his Lie." 
In this copy the first line is, 

"Heuce, soule, the bodie's guest." 

The poem has been assigned to Richard Barnfield ; also, 
by several recent authorities, to Joshua Sylvester, In the 
folio edition of whose works there Is an altered and in- 
ferior version, justly styled by Sir Egerton Brydges " a 
parody," and published under the title of "The Soul's 
Errand." It consists of twenty stanzas, all of four lines 
each, excepting the first stanza, which has six. "The 
Lie" consists of but thirteen stanzas, of six lines each. 
On Raleigh's side there Is good evidence besides the in- 
ternal proof, which is very strong. Two answers to the 
poem, written in his lifetime, ascribe it to him ; as do 
two manuscript copies of the period of Elizabeth. When 
and by whom it was first taken from Raleigh and given 
to Sylvester, with .an altered title, is still a matter of 
doubt ; and why Sylvester should have Incorporated Into 
his poem of "The Soul's Errand," six stanzas belonging 
to "The Lie," can be explained only by the laxity of the 
times In regard to literary property. The versions of 
this poem differ considerably. The title of "The Soul's 
Errand" is usually given to It. 


Go, soul, the hody's guest, 
Upon a thankless arrant :' 

Fear not to touch the best ; 

The truth shall be thy warrant : 

Go, since I needs must die, 

And give the world the lie. 

Say to the court, it glows 

And shines like rotten wood; 

Say to the chnrch, it shows 

What's good, and doth no good : 

If church and court reply. 

Then give them both the lie. 

Tell potentates, they live 
Acting by others' action ; 

Not loved unless they give. 
Not strong, but by a faction : 

If potentates reply. 

Give potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition, 
That rule .Tffairs of state, 

Their is ambition, 
Their practice only hate: 

Aud if they once reply. 

Then give them all the lie. 

' Errand. 



Tell them tbat brave it most, 
They beg for more by spending, 

Who, in tbc'ir greatest cost, 

Seeli nothing but commending : 

And if they make reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell zeal it lacks devotion ; 

Tell love it is but lust ; 
Tell time it is but motion; 

Tell flesh it is but dust : 
And wish them not reply. 
For thou must give the lie. 

Tell age it daily Tvasteth ; 

Tell honor how it alters ; 
Tell beauty how she blasteth ; 

Tell favor how it falters : ' 

And as they shall reply, 
Give every one the lie. 

Tell wit how much it wrangles 
In ticklo poiuts of niceness ; 

Tell wisdom she entangles 
Herself in over-wiseness : 

And when they do reply. 

Straight give them both the lie. 

Tell phj'sic of her boldness; 

Tell skill it is pretension ; 
Tell charity of coldness ; 

Tell law it is contention : 
And as they do reply. 
So give them still the lie. 

Tell foitnne of her blindness; 

Tell nature of decay ; 
Tell frieudship of nnkindness; 

Tell justice of delay: 
And if they will reply, 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell arts they have no soundness, 

But vary by esteeming; 
Tell schools they want profoundness. 

And stand too much on seeming : 
If arts and schools reply, 
Give arts and schools the lie. 

Tell faith it's fled the city ; 

Tell how the country erreth^ 
Tell, manhood shakes off pity; 

Tell, virtue least preferreth; 

And if they do reply, 
Spare not to give the lie. 

So when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbiug,- 
Altliough to give the lie 

Deserves no less than stabbing ;— 
Yet stab at thee who will. 
No stab the soul cau kill. 


Passions are likened best to floods and streams : 
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb ; 

So, when afliections yield discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 

They that are rich in words, in words discover 

That they are poor in that which makes a lover. 

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, 

The merit of true passion. 
With thinking that he feels no smart 

That sues for no compassion; 

Since if my plaints serve not to approve 

The conquest of thy beauty. 
It conies not from defect of love, 

But from excess of duty. 

For knowing that I sue to serve 

A saint of such perfection. 
As all desire, but none deserve, 

A place in her affection, 

I rather choose to want relief 

Thau venture the revealing; 
Where glory recommends the grief, 

Despair distrusts the healing. 

Thus those desires that aim too high 

For any mortal lover. 
When reason cannot make them die, 

Discretion doth them cover. 

Yet, when discretion doth bereave 
The plaints that they should utter. 

Then thy discretion may perceive 
That silence is a suitor. 

Silence in love bewrays more woe 
Than words, though ne'er so witty : 



A beggar that is dumb, you kuow, 
May cballeuge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, 
My true, though secret, passion : 

He smarteth most that liides his smart. 
And sues for no compassion. 


Supposed to hiive been written by Raleigb in 1603, iu tbe in- 
terval between his condemnation and his temporary respite. 
It manifests great mental e.xcitement; and alternates in rising 
to sublimity and sinking to bathos. There are several difl'er- 
ent versions of this estraordiuary prodactiou. 

Give mo my scallop-shell of quiet. 

My stati' of faith to wallj upon ; 
My scrip of joy, immortal diet; 

My bottle of salvation ; 
My gowu of glory, hope's true gauge, 
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage! 
Blood must bo my body's balraer. 

No other balm will there be given ; 
Whilst my soul, like quiet palitier, 

Travelleth towards the laud of Heaven ; 
Over the silver mountaius 
Where spring the nectar fountains : 
There will I kiss 
Tlie bowl of bliss. 
And drink mine eveil.'isting fill 
Upon every milkeu bill. 
My soul will bo a-dry before ; 
But after, it will thirst no more. 
Then by that happy, blissful day, 

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, 
Tliat have cast otf their rags of clay. 

And walk apparelled fresh like me. 
I'll take them first 
To quench their thirst, 
And taste of nectar's suckets 
At those clear wells 
Wliere sweetness dwells 
Drawn up by saints iu crystal buckets. 
And when our bottles and all wo 
Arc filled with immortality, 
Then tlie blessdd paths we'll travel, 
Strewed with rubies thick as gravel ; 
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, 
High walls of coral, and pearly doors. 
From thence to Heaven's bribeless' hall. 
Where no corrupted voices brawl ; 

• Allndiug to the common custom of bribery. Raleigh had 
himself given and taken bribes. 

No conscience molten into gold, 

No forged accuser,' bought or sold, 

No cause deferred, uo vaiu-si)eiit journey, — 

For there Christ is the King's Attorney ;' 

Who pleads for all without degrees, 

And he hath angels,^ but no fees ; 

And when the grand twelve million jury 

Of our sins, witli direful fury, 

'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, 

Christ pleads his death, and then wo live. 

Bo thou my speaker, taintless pleader, 

Uublotted lawyer, true proceeder ! 

Tliou giv'st salvation even for txlms, — 

Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. 

And this is mine eternal plea 

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea: 

That since my flesh must die so soon. 

And want a head to dine next noon,* 

Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread. 

Set on my soul an everlasting head ! 

Then am I, like a palmer, fit 

To tread those blest paths which before I writ: 

Of death and judgment, heaven aiul hell. 

Who oft doth thiuli, must needs die well. 

Sir |)l)ilip Siiincj). 

Sidney (1554-1586) was born at Penshurst, in Kent. 
He takes his ranlv in Englisli literary histoi-y rather as a 
lirose writer than as a i;oet. The liigli repute in wliicli 
liis verses were lield among his contemporaries was due 
chiefly to what was esteemed their scholarhj style; but 
in these days we sliould call it artificial. Some of his 
sonnets, however, are graceful in expression and noble 
iu thought. "The best of them," says Charles Lamb, 
"are among the very best of their sort. The verse runs 
oft' swiftly and gallantly, and might have been timed to 
the trumpet." In 15SG Sidney took a command in the 
War in the Netherlands. His death occurred iu the au- 
tumn of the same year, from wounds received at the as- 
sault of Zutphcu. He was then only thirty-two years 
of age. 


Siuce Niiture's works Ije good, and death doth servo 
As Nature's work, wliy should wo fear to die ? 
Since fear is vain but when it may preserve. 
Why should we fear that which wo cannot fly? 
Fear is more pain than is the pain it i'ears, 
Disarming human minds of native might ; 

> Like Lord Cobham, at his trial in re Arabella Stuart, 
'■i Unlike Coke, the King's attorney in Kalcigli's trial. 
3 Anfjcl — a play upon the word, alluding to tbe coin called an 
^ Alluding to his impending execution. 


While each conceit au ugly figure bears, 
Which were not evil, well viewed in reason's light. 
Our only eyes, which dimmed with passion be, 
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day — 
Let them be cleared, and now begin to see 
Our life is but a step in dusty way: 
Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind ; 
Since this we feel, great loss we cauuot find. 


It is most true that eyes are formed to serve 
The inward light, and that the heavenly part 
Ought to be Kiug, from whose rules who do 

Rebels to uaturc, strive for their own smart. 
It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart 
Au image is, which for ourselves we carve, 
And, fools, adore in temple of our heart. 
Till that good god make church and churchmen 

True, that True Beauty Virtue is indeed. 
Whereof this Beauty cau be but a shade 
Which elements with mortal mixture breed. 
True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made. 
And should in soul up to our country move : 
True ; aiul yet true — that I must Stella love. 


Leave me, O Love which readiest but to dust, 
And thou, my Jlind, aspire to higher things; 
Grow rich in that which never talceth rust : 
Wliatever fades but fading jileasure brings. 
Draw iu thy beams, and humble all thy might 
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be ; 
Wliich breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light 
That doth both shine and give us sight to see! 
Oh, take fast hold ; let that light bo thj' guide 
In this small course which birth draws out to death ; 
And think how evil becometh liira to slide. 
Who seeketh Leaven and comes of heavenly breath. 
Then farewell, world ; thy uttermost I see : 
Eternal Love, maintain thy Life iu me ! 


Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance 
Guided so well fliat I obtained the prize, 
Both by the judgment of the English eyes 

And of some sent from the sweet enemy — France; — 
Horsemen my skill iu horsemanship advance ; 
Townsfolk my strength ; a daintier judge applies 
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise ; 
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; 
Others, of both sides I do take 
My blood from them who did excel in this ; 
Think Nature me a man of arms did make. 
How far they shot awry! The true cause is, 
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face 
Shot forth the beams that made so fair my race. 


Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. 
The indiftereut judge between the high and low I 
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease' 
Of those fierce darts Despair at mo doth throw ; 
Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease ; 
I w ill good tribute pay if thou do so. 
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed ; 
A chamber, deaf to noise and blind to light ; 
A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
And if these things, as being thine by right, 
Move not thine heavy grace, thou shalt in me 
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 


My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
By just exchange one to the other given: 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss ; 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in mo keeps him and me in one, 
My heart iu him his thoughts and senses guides; 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
I cherish his because in me it bides : 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

.fulkc (frcDillc, £ori) Ui-ookc. 

Greville (1554-1628) was born at Alcaster, in Warwick- 
shire. He was the school-mate and intimate friend of 
Sir Philip Sidney, and a court favorite during the reigns 
of Elizabeth, James, and Charles I. At tlic age of scven- 

* Press, crowd. 



t5'-four he was assassinated by a ci-azy servant. Soutliey 
calls Grevillc "the most difficult" of English poets, and 
says : " No other writer of this or any other country ap- 
l)ears to have reflected more deeply on momentous sub- 
jects." Charles Lamb says of his verse: "Whether we 
look into his plays, or his most passionate love-poems, 
\vc shall find all frozen and made rigid with intellect." 
His eulogy on Philip Sidney is a noble tribute, full of 
condensed thought. 


Froji the "Treatise of Religion." 

For sure in all kinds of bypocvisy 

No bodies yet are found of constant being; 

No uniform, uo stable mystery, 

No luward nature, but an outward seeming; 

No solid trutli, no virtue, holiness, 

But types of these, which time makes more or 

And from these springs strange iuuudatious flow. 
To drown the sea-marks of humanity, 
With massacres, conspiracy, treason, woe, 
By sects and. schisms profaning Deity : 

Besides, with furies, iieuds, earth, air, and hell, 
They fit, and teach coufusiou to rebel. 

But, as there lives a true God iu the heaven, 
So is there true religion here ou earth : 
By nature? No, by grace; not got, but given; 
Inspired, not taught; from God a second birth; 
God dwclleth near about us, even within, 
Working the goodness, censuring the sin. 

Such as we arc to him, to us is he ; 

Without God there was no man ever good ; 

Divine the author and the matter be. 

Where goodness must bo wrought in flesh and 
• blood : 

Religion stands not in corrupted thiug.s, 
But virtues that descend have heavenly wings. 


Silence augmentcth grief, writing iuereaseth rage. 
Stalled are my thoughts, which loved and lost the 

wonder of our age, 
Y'et quickened now with fire, though de.ul with 

frost ere now. 
Enraged I write I know not w hat : dead, quick, I 

know not how. 

Hard-hearted minds releut,aud Rigor's tears abound, 
And Envy strangely rues his end iu whom uo fault 

she found; 
Kuowledge his light hath lost, Valor hath slain 

her knight, — 
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's 


He was — wo worth that word! — to each well-think- 
ing mind 

A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue 
ever shined, 

Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ. 

Highest couceits, longest foresights, and deepest 
works of wit. 

Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking 

dreams ! 
Farewell, sometimes enjoy(5d joy, eclipsed are thy 

Farewell, self- pleasing thoughts which quietness 

brings forth ! 
And farewell, friend.sliip's sacred league, uniting 

minds of worth! 

And farewell, merry heart, the gift of guiltless 

And all sports which for life's restore variety as- 

Let all that sweet is. void! In me no mirth may 
dwell !— 

Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life's content, 
farewell ! 

(C'corge Cljapinan. 

Chapman (1.557-16.'U) wrote translations, plays, and 
poems. His translation of Homer, iu fourteen-syllable 
rhymed measure, is a remarkable production. From 
Lord Houi^hton's edition of tlic Poetical Works of .John 
Keats, we learn tlmt the fine folio edition of Chapnum's 
translation of Homer had been lent to Mr. Charles Cow- 
den Clarke, and he and Keats sat up till daylight over 
their new acquisition ; Keats shouting with delight as 
some passage of especial energy struck his imagination. 
At ten o'clock the next nioruiug, Mr. Clarke found this 
sonnet by Keats on his breakfast-table. 

"Much have I travelled in the re.ilms of j;nUl, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
Round many weslein i.slnnds have I been 
Which bards in fealiy to Apollo hold. J 

Oft of one wide expan.>ie had I been told, ^ 

That dccp-hrowed Homer ruled as his demesne: 
Yet did I never brcitlie its pure serene 
Till I beard Chapnniu speak out Imul and bold: 



Then felt I like si>me watcber at the skies 
When a new i)lauct gwinis into his ken. 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyc3 
He stared at the Pacitic— aud all his men 
Looked at each other with a wild snrmise— 
Silent, upon a peak in Darieu." 

In his youth Chapman had for contemporaries and 
fellow-workers Spenser, Sidney, Shakspeare, Daniel, and 
Marlowe. He regarded poesy as a "divine discipline," 
rather than as a pastime, and in his most elevated mood 
lie appears dignilied, self-reliant, reflective, and, above 
all, consijicuously lionest. 

OF SUDDEN DEATH. action wonldst thou wish to have iu hnml 

If .siulden death should come for his comniand ? 

I would be doing good to most good nieu 

That most did ueed, or to their cliildreu, 

And ill advice (to rnalie them their true heirs) 

I would bo giving up my soul to theirs. 

To wliich eft'ect if Death should find me given, 

I woiiUl, with both my hands lield up to heaveu, 

Make these my last words to my Deity : 

"Those faculties Thou hast bestowed on me 

To understand Thy government and will, 

I have, iu all fit actions. ofi"ered still 

To Tliy divine acceptance ; and, as far 

As I had influence from Thy bounty's star, 

I liave made good Thy form infused in me : 

The anticipations given me naturally 

I have, with all my study, art, and prayer, 

Fitted to every object and affair 

My life presented and my knowledge taught. 

My iioor sail, as it hath been ever fraught 

With Thy free goodness, hath been balhist too 

With all my gratitude. Wliat is to do, 

.Supply it, sacred Saviour ; Thy high grace 

III my poor gifts, receive again, and place 

Where it shall please Thee ; Tliy gifts never die, 

But, having brought one to felicity. 

Descend again, and help auother up." 


Thou must not undervalue what tliou hast. 

In weighing it with that wliich more is graced. 

Tlie worth that weigheth inward should not hmg 

For ontward prices. This should make thee strong 

In tliy close v.alue : naught .so good can be 

As that which lasts good betwixt God and thee. 

Rcnicmber thine own verse: Should hcaren turn hull 

For deeds well done, I would do erer well. 


Give me a Spirit that on life's rough sea 
Loves to luive his sails tilled witli a lusty wind, 
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his luasts crack. 
And his rapt ship run on her side so lovr 
That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air 
There is no danger to a man that knows 
What life and death is ; tliere's not any law 
Exceeds liis knowledge, neither is it needful 
That lie should stoop to any other law : 
He goes before thcin, and commands them all. 
That to himself is a law rational. 

Uobcvt (!^l•ccltc. 

If only for one stanza that he wrote, Robert Greene 
(1560-1592), playwright aud poet, deserves a mention. 
He was born in Norfolk, got a degree at Cambridge in 
1578, travelled, in Italy aud Snain. and wasted his patri- 
mony in dissipation. Eeturning lioine, he betook him- 
self to literature as a means of livelihood. He died in 
great poverty and friendlessncss. From liis last book, 
"Tbe Groat's-worth of Wit bought with a Million of Re- 
pentance,'' we quote the following: 


Deceiving world, that with alluring toys 
Hast made my life the subject of thy scorn, 
-And scornest now to lend thy fading joys. 
To ont-length my life, whom friends have left for- 
lorn ; — 
How well are they that die ere they bo born, 
And never see thy slights, which few men shnii. 
Till unawares they helpless are undone I 

Oh that a year were granted ine to live, 
And for that year my former wits restored ! 
Wliat rules of life, what counsel I would give. 
How should my sin witli sorrow be deplored! 
But I must die of every man abhorred : 
Time loosely spent will not again be won ; 
My time is loosely spent, and I undone. 

Samuel Daniel. 

The son of a music-master. Samuel Daniel (1.563-1019) 
was born near Taunton, in Somersetsbire. Educated 
under the patronage of a sister of Sir Philip Sidney, he 
studied at Magdalene College, Oxford, but took no de- 
gree. His largest work is " The History of the Civil 
Wars;" he wrote also a number of Epistles, Sonnets, and 



Jinsques ; and in prose a " Dcfunce of Rliyrae" (1601) 
and a "History of England" (1613). The modem clmr- 
acter of his English, as well as of his thinking, has been 
often noted by critics. " For his diction alone," says 
Southey, "he would deserve to be studied, even though 
his works did not aliound in passages of singular beau- 
ty." He justly felicitated himself in his later days that 
he had never written unclean verses; that never had his 

"Harmless pen at all 
Distained with any loose immodesty, 
Nor never noted to be touched wiUi g:tll. 
To ai^^ravate the worst man's inf;imy; 
Bat still have done the fairest offices 
To Virtue and the time." 

D.micl became "poet-laureate voluntary" at the death 
of Spenser, but Was soon superseded by Ben Jonson as 
poet -laureate by appointment. There seems to have 
been ill-feeling between the tv\-o; for Jonson says of 
him: "He was a good, honest man, had no children, and 
was no poet." The slur is undeserved. Some years be- 
fore his death Daniel retired to a farm, where he ended 
his days. His "Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland '' 
is a noble specimen of meditative verse. It was much 
admired by Wordsworth, whose indebtedness to it, in 
tone at least, may be traced in his "Character of the 
Happy Warrior." 


Ho that of .such a lieiglit liivtli built lii."! mind, 
Aud reared the dwelling of lii.s tlionglits so strong, 
As iieitlier hope nor fear can sliako tlic frame 
Of l)is resolv(5d i)o\vprs ; nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
Hi.s settled peace, or to di.stnrb the same: 
M'hat a fair seat hath lie, from whence he 7nny 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey! 

And with how free an eye doth li<' look down 
Upon lower regions of turmoil! 
Wlicre all the storms of pa-ssion mainly beat 
On flesh and blood : where honor, iiowcr, renown, 
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 
Wliere greatness stands npou as feeble feet. 
As frailty doth ; and only- great doth seem 
To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks npon the mightiest monarch's wars 

But only as on stately robberies ; 

Where evermore the fortune that prevails 

Must be the right ; the ill-snccceding mars 

The fairest and the best faced enterprise. 

Circat pirate Pompey lesser pirates (jnails : 

Justice, he sees (as if sednc(;d), still 

Conspires with power, whoso cause must not be ilk 

He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold 
As are the passions of uncertain man ; 
Who puts it in all colors, all attires. 
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. 
He sees, tliat let deceit work what it can. 
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires. 
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet 
All disappoint, aud mocks the smoke of wit. 

Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks 
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow 
Of Power that prondly sits on otliers' crimes, — 
Charged with more crying sins thiin those he 

The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
Up in the present for the coming times. 
Appall liim not that hath no side at all, 
But of himself, and knows tlie worst can fall. 

Althoiigli his heart (so near allied to earth) 
Cannot but pity the perplext'd state 
Of troublous and distressed mortality. 
That thus make way unto the ngly birth 
Of their own sorrows, aud do still beget 
Afflictiou upon imbecility, — 
Yet, seeing thus the course of things must run, 
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-doue. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses. 
And is encompassed; whilst as craft deceives, 
And is deceived; whilst man doth ransack man. 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress; 
And tlie inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes, — he looks thereon 
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
Aud bears no venture in impiety. 

Thus, madam, fares that man that hath prepared 

A rest for his desires; and sees all thiugs 

Beneath him ; and hath learued this book of man. 

Full of the notes, of frailty ; and comiiared 

The best of glory with her snfi'erings: 

By whom, I see, you labor all you can 

To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as 

Ilis glorious mansion as your powers can bear. 

Which, madam, are so soiuidly fa.shion(5d 

By that clear judgment that hath carried you 

Beyond the feeble limits of your kind. 

As they can stand against the strongest head 

Passion can make ; inured to any hue 

The world can cast ; that cannot cast that mind 



Out of her fdvm nf gooiliicss, that dotli seo 
Buth what the Ijest ami worst of earth can he. 

Which makes, that whatsoever here befalls, 
You ill the region of yourself remain : 
(Where no vain breath of th' iinpuilent molests) 
That lieth secured within the brazen walls 
Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) 
Rises in peace, in innocency rests; 
Whilst all what Malice from without procures; 
Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours. 

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge 
Than women use to do, yet you well know 
That wrong is better checked by being contemned 
Than being pursued ; leaving to Him to aveugo 
To whom it appertains: W^herein you sliow 
How worthily your clearness hath condemned 
Base malediction, living in the d.-irk, 
That at the raya of goodness still dotli bark: — 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
These revolutions of disturbances 
.Still roll: where all th' aspects of misery 
Predominate : whose strong effects are such 
As ho must bear, being powerless to redress: 
And that unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man. 

And how tnrmoiled they are that level lie 
With earth, and caunot lift themselves from thence ; 
That never are at peace with their desire.'^, 
But work beyond their years ; and even deny 
Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense 
With death ; that when ability expires, 
Desire lives still: so much delight they have 
To carry toil and travail to the grave ! 

Whoso ends yon see, and what can be the best 
They roach unto, when they have cast tlie snni 
And reckonings of their glory. And yon know 
This floating life hath but this port of rest: 
A heart prepared that fears no ill to come. 
And that man's greatness rests but in his show, 
The best of all wliose days consumed are 
Either in war or peace — conceiving war. 

Tills concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind 
Hath been so set by that .all-working hand 
Of Heaven, that though the world hath done his 

To put it out by discords most nnkiml, — 

Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
With God and man : nor ever will be forced 
From that most sweet accord; but still agree 
Equal in fortune's inequality. 

And this note, madam, of your worthiness 
Eemaius recorded in so many hearts. 
As time nor malice cannot wrong your right 
111 th' iuheritanco of fame you must iiossess : 
You that have built you by your great deserts 
(Out of small means) a far more exquisite 
And glorious dwelling for your honored name. 
Tlian all the gold that leaden minds can frame. 


Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair; 
Her brow shades frown, altho' her eyes are sunny : 
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; 
And her disdains are gall, her favors honey. 
A modest maid, decked with a blush of honor, 
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and 

love ; 
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her : 
S.icred on earth, designed a saint above : 
Chastity and Beauty, which are deadly foes, 
Live reeonciMd friends within her brow ; 
And had she Pity to conjoin witli those. 
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now ? 
For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, 
My muse had slept, and none had known my mind. 


Ah, I remember well (and how can I 
But evermore remember well ?) when first 
Onr flamo, when scarce we knew what was 
Tlio flame wo felt ; when as we sat and sighed. 
And looked upon each other, and conceived 
Not what we ailed, yet something we did ail. 
And yet were well, and yet we were not well. 
And what was our disease we could not tell. 
Tlien would we kiss, then sigh, then look ; and 

111 that first garden of our simpleuess. 
We sjient our childhood. But when years began 
To reap the fruit of knowledge — ah, how then 
Would she with steruer looks, with graver brow. 
Check my presumption and my forwardness ! 
Yet still would give me flowers, still would show 
What she would have me, yet not have me know. 



Uicljavi) niison. 

Little is known of Alison. He pnblished in 1590 "A 
Plaine Confutation of a Treatise of Brownism, entitled 
'A Description of the Visible Cliurch ;' " and, in 1606, 
"AuHoure's Recreation in Musieke, apt for Instruments 
and Voyces;" Irora wiiieli tlie following little poems are 


Fnojr "An Houre's Recreation in Musicke." 

In hope a king (loth go to war, 
In hope a lover lives full long; 

lii hope a merchant sails fnll far, 
III hope jnst men do suft'er wrong; 

In hope the plonghmau sows his seed : 

Thus hope helps thonsands at their need. 

Then faint not, heart, among the rest; 

Whatever chauee, hope thou the best. 


Tliere is a garden in her face, 

Where roses and white lilies blow ; 

A heavenly paradise is that jilaee, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; 

There cherries grow that noue may buy 

Till eherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Tliose cherries fairly do enclose 

Of orient pearl a double row. 
Which, when her lovely laughter shows. 

They look like rose-bnds tilled with snow; 
Yet them no peer nor prince may bny 
Till eherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still. 
Her brows like bended bows do stand, 

Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
All that approach with eye or hand 

These sacred cherries to come nigh, 

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

liobcvt !5outl)iiicll. 

The rei;;n of Elizalictli includes, among other signs of 
the times, the hanging of a poet of rare purity and spir- 
ituality for his devotion to the Roman Catliolic religion. 
Robert Soutliwcll (1.")60-1.50.t) was born near Norwich, 
England. He was educated at Paris for two years before 
he went to Rome, and was received, at the age of seven- 

teen, into the order of Jesuits. From Rome he was sent 
as a missionary to England, and was attaclied to tlie 
household of Anne, Countess of Arundel, who perished 
in the Tower. Southwell sliared the fate of all piiesls 
who could be found and seized at that time in England. 
In 1593 he was sent to prison, and during three years 
was subjected to tlie toVtui'cs of the rack no less than 
ten times. At length, in 1.595, the Court of King's Bench 
condemned him as being a Catholic priest ; he was drawn 
to Tyburn on a hurdle, was hanged, and had his heart 
burnt in sight of the people. A good man and a noble, 
of gentle disposition and blameless life, his fate reflects 
deepest infamy on his brutal and heartless persecutors. 
Southwell exhibits a literary culture far above that of 
some poets of larger fame, and, as he was only tliii'ty- 
tive at the time of his execution, he probably had not 
reached the maturity of his powers. 


Love mistress is of many minds, 
But few know whom they serve ; 

They reckon least how little hope 
Their service doth deserve. 

The will she robbeth from the wit, 
The sense from reason's lore ; 

She is delightful in the rind, 
Corrupted in the core. 

She sliroudeth viee in virtue's veil. 

Pretending good in ill ; 
She offereth joy, but bringeth grief, 

A, — where she doth kill. 

Her watery eyes have burning force, 
Her Hoods and flames conspire ; 

Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are, 
And sighs but fan the fire. 

A honey shower rains from her lips, 
Sweet lights shine in her face ; 

She hath the of virgin mind, 
The mind of viper's race. 

She makes thee seek, yet fear to find ; 

To find, but uanglit enjoy ; 
In many frowns, some passing smiles 

She yields to more annoy. 

She letteth fall some luring baits, 

For fools to gather up ; 
Now sweet, now sour, for every taste 

She tempereth her cup. 



With soothing words, iuthralled souls 
She chains in servile bands ! 

Her ej'e iu silence hath a speech 
Which eye best understands. 

Her little sweet hath many sours. 
Short haj), immortal harms ; 

Her loving looks are murdering darts, 
Her songs bewitching charms. 

Like winter rose, and summer ice, 
Her joys are still untimely; 

Before her hope, behind remorse, 
Fair first, iu fine unseemly. 

Plough Dot the seas, sow not the sands 

Leave off your idle pain; 
Seek other mistress for your minds — 

Love's service is in vain. 


The lopped tree in time may grow again, 

Most naked jdants renew both fruit and flower; 

The sorest wight may find release of pain, 

The driest soil suck in some moist'uiug shower; 

Times go by turns and chances change by course. 

From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, 
She draws her favors to the lowest ehb ; 

Her time hath equal times to come and go, 

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web ; 

No joy so great but rnuneth to an end. 

Nor hap so hard but may iu time amend. 

Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, 
No endless night yet not eternal day ; 

The saddest birds a season find to sing, 

Tbe ronghest storm a calm may soon allay ; 

Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, 

That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall. 

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; 

The well that holds no great, takes little fish ; 
In some things all, in all tilings none are crossed. 

Few all they need, bnt none have all they 
wish ; 
Unnieddled' joys here to no man befall. 
Who least hath some, who most have never all. 

* Unmixed joys. 

Josljiux GnlucGtcr. 

Sylvester (1563-161S) was a l:\boi-ious but unequal 
writer. He styles himself a mercliant adventurer. Lit- 
tle is known of his life. His works consist principally 
of translations. In regard to "Tlie Soul's Errand," a 
poem resembling one by Raleigh, hut sometimes credited 
to Sylvester, see the memoir ofRaleigli iu this volume. 


I not believe that the great Architect 

With all these fires the heavenly arches decked 

Only for show, and with these glistering shields 

To amaze jioor shepherds w.atching in the fields; 

I not believe that the least flower which pranks 

Onr garden borders or our common banks, 

And the least stone that in her warming lap 

Onr mother Earth doth covetously wrap 

Hath some peculiar virfno of its own, 

And that the glorious stars of heaven have none. 


Were I as base as is the lowly plain, 
And yon, my Love, as high as heaven above, 
Yet should the thoughts of me, yonr humble swain. 
Ascend to heaven in honor of my Love. 
Were I as high as heaven above the plain. 
And you, my Love, as humble and as low- 
As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
Wlieresoe'er you were, with you my lo\e should go. 
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, 
My love should shine on yon like to the snn. 
And look upon yon with ten thousand eyes 
Till heaven waxed blind, and till the World were 

Wlieresoe'er I am, below, or else above yon, 
Whcresoe'cr you are, my heart shall truly love you. 

illicl)acl Dranton. 

Drayton {circa 1.563-1631) was of humble parentage, 
and from his earliest years showed a taste for poetry. 
He is one of the most voluminous of the rhyming tribe. 
Pope somewhere speaks of "a verv mediocre poet, one 
Drayton." Tlie slight is undeserved. Drayton's works 
extend to above one hundred thousand verses. The 
work on which his fome rested in his own day is the 
"Polyolbion," a minute chorographical description of 
England and Wales. Most of liis principal pieces were 
published before he was thirty yeiirs of age. His spirit- 



ud "Ballad of Asiiicourt " lias been the model foi- many 
similar productions; and there is much playful grace in 
the fairy fancies of "Nyinphidia." May not Drake have 
taken a hint from it in his "Culprit Fay?" 


Since tliere's no help, come let us kiss and part : 

Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me ; 

And I am glad, yea, glad witU all my Leait, 

That thus so clearly I myself can free. 

Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows. 

And, when we meet at any time again. 

Be it not seen in either of onr brows 

That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest brcatli, 

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies ; 

When Faith is kneeling hy his bed of death. 

And Innocence is closing np his eyes, — 

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him 

From death to life thou mii'htst him vet recover. 


Fair stood the wind for Franco 
When we our sails advance. 
Nor now to prove onr chanco 

Longer will tarry; 
But, putting to the main, 
At Kause, the mouth of .Seine, 
AVith all his martial train. 

Landed King Harry; 

And, taking many a fort 
Furnished in warlike sort. 
Marched towards Aginconrt 

In happy hour; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With (hose that stopped his way. 
Where the French General lay 

With all his power, 

Wliicli, in his height of pride 
King Henry lo deride. 
His ransom to jiroviile 

To the King sending; 
Which he neglects the while 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet, with an angry smile, 

Tlicir fall portending. 

And, turning to his men. 
Quoth our bravo Henry then: 
Though they to oue be ten, 

Be not amazed ; 
Yet have wo well begun ; 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raisdd. 

And for myself, quoth he, 
This my full rest shall be ; 
England ne'er mourn for me, 

Nor more esteem me : 
Victor I will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain : 
Never sli.all she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressy tell. 

When most their pride did swell, 

Under our swords they fell : 

No less onr skill is 
Than when our Graudsire great. 
Claiming the regal seat. 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies. 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led ; 
With the main Henry sped 

Amongst his heuchmen ; 
Excester the I'ear, 
A braver mau not there : 
O Lord, how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

Tliey now to fight are gone : 

Armor on armor shone ; 

Drum now to drum did ; 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shako ; 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham ! 
Which did the signal aim 

To onr hid forces ; 
When, from a meadow by, 
Like a storm, suddenly, 
The English archery 

Struck the French horses 



With Spanish yew so stroug, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stuug, 

Piercing the weather : 
None from his fellow starts, 
But, playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts, 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbows drew. 
And ou the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy : 
Anns were from shonlder sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went : 

Our men were hardy. 

This while onr noble King, 
His l)roadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding 

As to o'erwhelm it; 
And many a deep wound rent 
Ills arms with blood besprent. 
Anil many a cruel dent 

Bruised his Jielmet. 

Glo'ster, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood 

With his brave brother 
Clarence, iu steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet, in that furious fight. 

Scarce such another! 

W\arwick in blood did wade ; 
Oxford, the foe invade. 
And cruel slaughter made 

Still, as they ran nj) : 
Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right donglitily, 

Ferrers and Fauhope. 

Upon St. Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay 

To England to carry : — • 
Oh, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry? 

Cljiistof)l)cr fHavlouu'. 

Marlowe (1.564-1593) ranks among the most eminent 
of the Elizabethan dramatists. He was tlie son of a 
siioemaker in Canterbury. After graduating at Cam- 
bridge, lie became a writer for tlie stage and an actor. 
In 1.587, lie was known as the antlior of "Tamburlaine 
the Great." Other plays followed ; and for a time Mar- 
lowe and Shakspearc were competitors. This splendid 
rivalry, and all it miglit have led to, was, liowevcr, cut 
short in 1593, when Marlowe, still not thirty years of 
age, received a stab iu a brawl in some inn at Deptford, 
and died from its etfects. The pastoral song, to which a 
reply, supposed to be by Kaleigli, was written, is among 
the few specimens we liavc of Marlowe's nou-dramatie 
verse. In some versions of it the following stanza (com- 
ing next before the last) is contained; but it is believed 
to have been inserted by Izaak Walton, and presents a 
very unshepherd-like image : 

" Thy silver dishes for thy meat, 
As precious .ns the gi)ds do eat. 
Shall, on an ivory table, be 
Piepaved each dny for thee aud me." 


Bad Aiigeh Now, Faustus, let thiue eyes with hor- 
ror stare 
Into tliat vast perpetual torture-house : 

Those that are fed with sops of flaming lire. 
Were gluttons, and loved only delicates. 
And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates. 
But yet all these are nothing ; thou shalt sco 
Ten thonsand tortures that more horrid be. 

Faust. Oh, I have seen enough to torture me. 

B. Any. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the 
smart of all ; 
Ho that loves pleasure must for ideasnro fall. 
And so I leave thee, Faustus. * * * [Ejcii. 

The clock strikes eleven. 

Faunf. O Faustus! — 
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live. 

Stand still, ye ever-moving spheres of heaven. 
That time may cease, and midnight never come. 
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 
Perpetual day ; or let this hour be but 
A year, a month, a week, a natural day. 
That Faustus may repent and save his soul. 

The stars move still, — time runs — the clock will 



Oil, I'll leap lip to lieaveu! — Who pulls mc (lowii ? 

* if * * if *- 

Yet will I call on Him! — Oh spare me, Lucifer! — 

AVlicre is it now? — 'Tis gone: 

And see a tbreateiiiug arm — an angry brow! 

Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on nie. 

And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven! 

No! — Then will I headlong run into the earth: 

Gape, earth! — Oh no; it will not harbor me. 

Ye stars that reigned at my nativity, 

Whose intlnence hath allotted death and hell, 

Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist. 

Into the entrails of yon laboring cloud ; 

That, when you vomit forth into the air, 

My limbs may issue from your smoky months. 

But let uiy soul mount and ascend to heaven. 

The H-atcli strikes. 

Oh! half the hour is past: 'twill all bo past anon. 

Oh! if my soul must suffer for my sin, 

Impose some end to my incessant pain : 

Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, 

A hundred thousand, and at last be saved : 

No end is limited to damned souls. 

Why wert thou not a creature wanting sonl ? 

Or, why is this immortal that thou hast ? 

Oh ! Pythagoras, — Metempsychosis ! — were that 

This soul should fly from me, and I be changed 
Into some brutish beast. 
All beasts are happy, for w hen they die, 
Their souls are soon dissolved in element ! 

* ^ * * * w 

Now, Faustus, curso thyself — Lucifer, 
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. 

The clock strikes twelre. 

It strikes — it strikes! now body turn to air. 

Oil, soul, be changed into small water-drops, 
And fall into the ocean — ne'er be found. 


Come live with mo, and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove. 
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields. 
Woods, or steepy mountains yields :' 

' To nvnid the bad English, the couplet is altered as follows, 
*u some vei'Biong: 

"Ttmt hill niul valley, irrove niul field, 
Aud i)ll llie cr;iggy iiiouulains yield." 

And we will sit upon the rocks, 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I w ill make tlice beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of ilowers, and a kirtle. 

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; 

A gown made of the finest wool. 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Fair-lin^d slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 

A belt of straw and ivy-buils, 
With coral clasps and amber studs : 
Aud if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me aud bo my love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning. 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Come live with me aud be my love. 


If all the world aud Love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
WTieu rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 
Then Philomel becometh dumb, 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy .shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten ; 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds. 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs, 

' Archbishop Trench is of opinion that the evidence which 
ascribes this to Raleigh is iusnfHcicut. 



All these in me no means can move, 
To come to tbee anil be tby love. 

But, conld youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor .age no need ; 
Tlieu tbese deliglits my mind miglit move, 
To live vritb tbee, and be tby love. 

(Pbttiari) Jaufai'. 

The fii-st edition of FairfMx's celebrated translation of 
Tusso's " Ji-i-usulem Delivered" is dated 1000; tlie sec- 
ond, 1024. Drydcn ranked Fairfax with Spenser as a mas- 
ter of English ; and Waller derived from him, according 
to his own confession, the harmony of his numbers. The 
date of Fairfax's birtli is unknown, but was probably 
about 1.504. He was the natural son of Sir Thomas Fair- 
fax, and had a long and happy life amidst rural scenes, 
lie was living in 1631. The date of his death is not 
known. He wrote a work on " Demonology," which 
was not printed until 1859. 


It was the time when 'gaiust the breaking day 
Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined ; 
For in the east appeared the morning gray, 
.\nd yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined, 
When to Mount Olivet he took his way. 
And saw, as round .about his eyes he twined, 
Night's shadows hence, from thence the nn)rning's 

This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine. 

Thus to himself he thought: How ni:uiy bright 
And 'si>b'udeut lamps shine in heaven's temple 

high ! 
Day bath his golden snu, her moon the night, 
Her lixed and wandering stars the azure sky: 
So frann^d all by their Creator's might. 
That still they live and .shine, and ne'er will die. 
Till in a moment, with the last day's brand, 
They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land. 

Thus .as he mu.sdd, to the top he went. 
And there kneeled down with reverence and fear; 
His eyes upon heaven's ea.steni face he bent; 
His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were: — 
"The sins and errors which I now repent. 
Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear. 
Remember not, but let thy merey fall, 
And purge tay faults and my otfences all." 

Thus prayed he : with purple wings np-flew, 
lu golden weed, the morning's lusty queen, 
Begilding with the radiant beams she threw 
His helm, the harness, and the mountain green : 
Upon his breast and forehead gently blew 
The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen ; 
And o'er bis head, let down from clearest skies, 
A cloud of pure and precious dew there tiies. 

lHUliam Sljiakspcarr. 

The Baptismal Register of Stratford-on-Avon contains 
the following entry: "April 26,1.564. Guliebnus, Alius 
Johannes Shakespeare." The house in which the poet 
was born stands, in a restored condition, in Henley 
Street; and the conjectured room of his birth is scrib- 
bled over — walls, ceiling, windows — with thousands of 
names. His father, a wool-comber, though not opulent, 
seems to have been in good circumstances, to have had 
property in land and houses, and to have held the high- 
est official dignities of the town. But probably a short 
course in the Stratford grammar-school was all the reg- 
ular education Shakspeare ever received. He married, 
at the age of eighteen, Anne Hathaway, seven or eight 
years older than himself. Two or three years afterward 
he removed to London, where he rapidly acquired a 
large property in more than one theatre. We do not 
know the order in which his plays were produced, but 
he soon vindicated the immense superiority of his gen- 
ius by universal popularity. He was the companion of 
the nobles and the wits of the time, and a favorite of 
Queen Elizabeth herself, at whose request some of his 
pieces were written. The wealth which he realized en- 
abled him, comparatively early in life, to retire from his 
professional career. There had been born to him a son 
and two daughters. He had purchased an estate in tlie 
vicinity of his native town, but he enjoyed it only four 
years. He died of fever in 1616, aged fifty-two. 

The works of Shakspeare consist of tliirty -seven plays, 
tragedies, comedies, and histories; the poems, "Venus 
and Adonis," and "Tarquin and Lucrece," with a collec- 
tion of sonnets, or, r.ather, fourteen -lined poems, of ex- 
quisite beauty .and variety, each consisting of three qua- 
trains of alternate rhyme and a closing couplet. His 
want of care in preserving and autlieuticating the pro- 
ductions of his genius before his death has been sup- 
posed to indicate either his indifference to fame or the 
absence of a knowledge of the magnitude of what he bad 
achieved; and yet there are expressions in his sonnets 
that seem to imply a sense of his intellectual superiority. 
The subject of his dramatic and poetical character is so 
vast that it would be idle here to attempt its analysis. 

His Sonnets represent him in the full maturity of man- 
hood, and at the height of his fame. They were probably 
written between the years 1595 and 1603, when he was 
livins at Stratford in dignified retirement. Of these 
sonnets Trench says: "They are so heavily laden with 
meaning, so double-shotted (if one m.ay so speak) with 
thought, so penetrated and pervaded with a repressed 



pnssion, tliat, packed as all this is into narrowest limits, it 
sometimes imparts no little obscurity to tbem ; and they 
often require to be lieard or read, not once, but many 
times — in fact, to be studied — before they reveal to us all 
the treasures of thonilit and feelins;' which they contain." 

These remarkable and mysterious sonnets are one 
hundred and tifty-four in number, and, with the excep- 
tion uf twenty-eight, are addressed to some male person, 
to whom the poet refers in a style of alTection, love, and 
idolatry almost unnatural ; remarkable, even in the reifvn 
of Elizalieth, for morbid extravananee and enthusiasm. 
The sonnets were lirst printed in l(i09, by Thomas Thorpe, 
a ijublisher of the day, who prefixed to the volume the 
following enigmatical dedication : "To the only begetter 
of these ensuing sonnets, Mr. \V. H., all happiness and 
that eternity promised by our ever-living poet, wisheth 
the well-wishing adventurer in setting forth, T. T." The 
" W. H." alluded to by Thorpe has been conjectured to 
be W-'liam Herbert, alterward Earl of Pembroke, who, as 
ai>pcars from the folio of lOiS, was one of Shakspeare's 
jiatrons. This conjecture has received the assent of Mr. 
Hallam and others. Many theories, none satisfactory, 
have been broached to account for these exceptional 

It has been truly remarked by an anonymous writer 
that no man of whom we have any knowledge in litera- 
ture ever had, like Shakspeare, "the faculty of pouring 
out on all occasions such a Hood of the richest and deep- 
est language; no man ever said such splendid extem- 
pore things on all subjects universally. That excessive 
liuency which astonished Ben Jonsou when he listened 
to Shakspeare in person astonishes the world yet. He 
was the greatest master of expression that literature has 
known. Indeed, by his powers of expression he has beg- 
gared and forestalled posterity. Such lightness and case 
in the manner, and such prodigious wcaltli and depth in 
the matter, are combined in no other writer." 


From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona." 

^Vho i.s Silvia ? What is she. 

That all our swains comiuend her f 

Holy, fair, and vise is she, 

The lieavcns sncli grace «Ud lend Iier, 

That she might adiiiii<5d bo. 

I.s .slio kind as she is fair. 

For beauty lives with kindness? 

Love doth to her eyes repair. 
To help liini of his blindness; 

And, being hel|ied, inhabits there. 

Tlien to Silvia let ns sing, 

That Silvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing, 

Upon the dull eartli dwelling: 
To her let ns garlands bring. 


FR03I " JIucH .\D0 About Nothing." 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. 

Men w ere deceivers ever : 
One foot in sea, and one on f,liore, 
To one thing constant never: 
Then sigh not so, 
But let them go, 
Aud he yon blithe and bonny; 
Converting all your sonnds of woe 
Into hey nonny, nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo. 

Of dumps so dull and heavy ; 

The fraud of men was ever so. 

Since snnnner first was leavy : 

Then sigh not so, 

15nt let them go, 

And be yon blithe and bonny; 

Converting all your sounds of woo 

Into hey nonny, uonuy. 


From *' The Tempest." 

Where the bee sucks, there snck I ; 

In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 

There I conch when owls do cry , 

On the bat's back I do Hy 

After summer merrily : 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 

Under the blossom that hangs on the bongli. 


From ".\s You Like It." 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 

Thou art. not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 

Because thon art not seen, 
Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho ! sing, heigli-ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly 

Then lieigh-lio! the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thon bitter sky, 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot : 



TliDUgli thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remembered not. 
Hfi;;h-Iio ! slug, heigh-ho ! unto the green liolly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly! 

Then, heigh-ho! the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 



Fear no more the heat o' the sun. 
Nor the furious Tvinter's rages ; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 

Golden lads and girls all ninst, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thuiidor-stoue ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Cousigu to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciscr harm thee ! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
Nothing ill come near thee ! 

Quiet cousumraation have ; 

And renowndd be thy grave ! 


From *' Love's Labor Lost." 

When icicles hang by the wall, 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 

And milk comes frozen home iu pail. 
When blood is nipped, aud ways be foul, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel tlie pot. 

When all around the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
And birds sit brooding iu the snow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw ; 
When roasted crabs hiss iu the bowl, 
Theu nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

From "CrsiBELisE." 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

Aud Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise! 



Shall I compare thee to a summer's day f 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date. 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. 
And often is his gold complexion dinmied; 
And every fair from fair sometimes declines. 
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed : 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest iu his shade, 
When iu eternal lines to time thou growest. 
So loug as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

AVhcn to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's 

waste : 
Then can I drown an eye unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 
And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled woe, 
Aud moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. 



Then can I grieve at grievances foregone 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoau4d moan, 
Wliieli I new jiay as if not paid before : 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 


Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter tlie mountain-tops witli sovereign eye, 
Kissing with golden face the meadows green. 
Gilding xiale streams with heavenly alchemy, — 
Auon permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face. 
And fiom the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. 
Even so my sun one early morn did sliine. 
With all-triumphant splendor on my brow ; 
But, out, alack! he was but one hour miue ; 
The region cloud hath masked him from me now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
Suns of the world nniy stain, when heaven'.s sun 


Oh, how mueh more doth beauty beauteous seem. 
By tlnit sweet ornament which truth doth gi ve ! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 
The canker-blooms' have full as deep a die, 
As the perfnuidd tincture of the roses ; 
Hang on such thorns, and l>lay as wautonly. 
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses; 
But, for their virtue only is their show. 
They live unwooed aiul unrespected fade ; 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made ; 
Aiul so of yon, beauteous and lovely youth, 
When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. 


Not marble, nor the gilded nionuuients 
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; 
But you shall shino more bright in these contents 
Than unwept stone, besmeared with sluttisli time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn. 
And broils root out the work of masonry, 
Nor Mars's sword nor war's quick fire sliall burn 
The living record of your memory. 
'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still lind 

' Cmiker-blnmiis ore fi-oni the canker-roses. 

Even in the eyes of all posterity. 
That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 

Like as the waves make toward the iiebbled shore, 

So do our minutes hasten to their end ; 

Each clianging jdaee with that which goes before, 

la sequent toil all forwards do contend. 

Nativity once in the main of light, 

C'r.awls to m.aturity, wherewith being crowned, 

Crookdd eclipses 'gainst his glory tight. 

And time that gave doth now Lis gift confound. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youtli, 

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, 

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, 

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. 

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand. 

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

Then hate me when thou wilt ; if ever, now : 

Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross. 

Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow. 

And do not drop in for an after-loss. 

Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow, 

Come in the re.arward of a con(|uered woe; 

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow. 

To linger out a purposed overthrow. 

If thou wilt leave me, do uot leave me last, 

When other petty griefs have done their spite; 

But in the onset come: shall I taste 

At first the very worst of fortune's might ; 

And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, 

C(uni>.ared with loss of thee, will not seem so. 

From you have I been absent in tlie spring, 
When proud-pied April, dressed in all liis trim. 
Hath jiut a .spirit of youth in everything, 
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him: 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet .smell 
Of dirterent flowers in odor and in hue. 
Could make me any summer's story tell. 
Or from their proud lap iduck them where thiy 

grew : 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; 
They were but sweet, but figures of dcliglit. 
Drawn after you ; you pattern o ' all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away, 
As with your sliailow I with these did [ilay : 



Alas ! 'tis true I have gone liere and there, 

Anil made myself a motley to the view; 

Gored my own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear. 

Made old oft'onces of affections new : 

Most true it is that I have looked on truth 

Askance and strangely ; hut, hy all above. 

These blenches gave my heart another youth, 

And worse essays proved thee my best of love. 

Now all is done, save what shall have uo eud : 

Mine appetite I nevermoio will grind 

On newer proof, to try an older friend, 

A god in love, to whom I am couiinod. 

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best. 

Even to thy pure and most, most loving breast. 

Oil, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. 
That did uot better for my life provide, 
Thau public means, which public numners breeds. 
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand. 
And almost thence my nature is subdued 
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. 
Pity me, then, and wish I were renewed. 
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink 
Potions of eysell 'gainst my strong infection :' 
No bitterness that I will bitter think. 
Nor double penance, to correct correction. 
Pity me, then, dear friend ; and I assure ye. 
Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 


Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments: love is not love, 

Which alters when it alteration finds. 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 

Oil no ! it is an ever-fixdd mark. 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark. 

Whose worth's unknown, altlio' his height be taken. 

Love's uot Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 

W^ithiu his bending sickle's compass come; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error, and upon me proved, 

I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

1 EifneU is ail old word for vinegar. Tliere .seems to be little 
tliMiln that ill tliis ami the preceding sonnet Shakspeare ex- 
presses some ofhis own honest feelings respecting hiniBelf and 
his orcnpation of player, in which he must have euconutered 
much that was humiliating, if uot demoralizing. 

Poor soul, the ceutre of my sinful earth. 
Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array. 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth. 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease. 
Dost tlion upon thy fading mansion spend ? 
Sliall worms, inheritors of this excess, 
Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy body's end ? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's los.s. 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store. 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; 
Within be fed, — without be rich no more. 
So slialt thou feed ou Deatli, that feeds on men ; 
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame 

Is hist in action; and till action, lust 

Is jjerjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame. 

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ; 

Enjoyed no sooner than despised straight ; 

Past reason hiiuted ; and no sooner had, 

Past reason hated; as a swallowed bait. 

On purpose laid to make the taker mad : 

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ; 

Had, h.aviug, and in quest to have, extreme ; 

A bliss in proof — and proved, a very woe ; 

Before, a joy jiroposed ; behind, a dream : 

.\11 tliis the world well knows; yet none knows well 

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. 


From " Troilus and Cressida." 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back. 

Wherein he i>uts alms for oblivion, 

A great-sized monster of ingratitudes : 

Those scraps are good deeds past ; which are devoureil 

As fast as they are made, forgot as soon 

As done : Perseverance, dear my lord. 

Keeps honor blight : To have done is to hang 

Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail, 

lu monumental mockery. Take the instant way ; 

For honor travels in a strait so narrow, 

Where one but goes .abreast : keep, then, the path ; 

For emulation hath a thousand sons, 

That one by ouo pursue : If you give way. 

Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, 

Like to an entered tide, they all rush by. 

And leave von hindmost ; — 



Or, like ;i gallant horse fallen iu first rank, 
Lie there for pavement to the alijeet rear, 
Oerrnu and trampled on : Then what thcj' do in 

Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours: 
For time is like a fashionable host. 
That slightly shakes his iiartiug guest by the hand. 
And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, 
Grasps in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, 
And Farewell goes out sighing. Oh, let not virtue 

Remuneration for the thing it was; 
For beauty, wit. 

High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service. 
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all 
To envious and calumniating time. 
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, — 
That all, with one consent, praise new-born gawd.s, 
Though they are made and moulded of things past ; 
And give to dust that is a little gilt 
More laud than gilt o'erdusted. 
The present eye praises the present object; 
Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, 
That .all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax ; 
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye 
Than what not stirs. 

FnoM '• The Mebcdant of Venice." 
The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 
'Tis mightiest iu the mightiest; it becomes 
The throudd monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power. 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
It is enthroned iu the hearts of kings. 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — • 
That iu the course of justice, none of ns 
Should see salvation : wo do pray for mercy. 
And that same prayer doth teach ns all to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea, 
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant 


From *' The Merchant of Venice." 

How sweet the moonliglit sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears; .soft stillness, and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patens of bright gohl. 
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the youug-eyed chernbims: 
Such harmony is in immortal sonls; 
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. — 
Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hynni ; 
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress's ear. 
And draw her home with music. — 

" I am never merry when I liear sweet music." 
The reason is, your spirits are attentive : 
For do but note a wild and w;inton herd. 
Or race of youthful and nnhandled colts. 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud. 
Which is the hot condition of their blood; 
If they bnt hear, perchauce, a trumpet sound. 
Or any air of music touch their ears. 
You shall perceive them make a stand, 
Tlieir savage ej-es turned to a modest gaze. 
By the sweet jiower of music : therefore, the poet 
Did feign that Orjiheus drew trees, stones, and 

floods ; 
Since naught .so stockish, hard, and full of rage. 
But music for the time doth change his nature; 
The man that hath not music in himself. 
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet souuds, 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
And his affections dark as Erebus: 
Let no such man be trusted. 

From "Uicuard II." 
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, 
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
This other Eden, demi-paradise ; 
This fortress, built by nature for herself, 
Against infection, and the hand of war; 
This happy breed of men, this little world, 
This precious stouo set in tlm silver sea. 
Which serves it iu the office of a wall. 
Or as a moat defensive to a house. 
Against the envy of less happier lands ; 



This Ijlcsseil plot, tliis earth, this realm, tliis Eug- 

This dear, dear laud, 
Dear for her reimtation through the world. 


O mistress miue! where are you roauiiug? 
O! stay and hear; your true love's coming, 

That can sing both high aud low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; 
Jourueys end in lovers' meeting. 

Every wise man's sou doth kuow. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter: 
Present rairth hath present laughter ; 

What's to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no iileuty; 
Then come kiss me, sweet aud twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 


How many thousands of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep! — O sleep! O gentle sleep! 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
Aud steep my senses in forge (fulness? 
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs. 
Upon pallets stretching thee. 
And hushed with buzzing uight-flies to thy slum- 
Thau iu the perfumed chambers of the great, 
Uuder the canopies of costly state. 
And lulled with sound of sweetest melody? 
Oh, thou dull gud! why liest thou with the vile 
In loathsome beds, aud leav'st the kingly couch 
A wateh-case, or a common 'larum bell?' 
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, 
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains, 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 
Aud iu the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
With deaf'niug clamors iu the slippery clouds, 
That with the hurly death itself awakes? 
Can'st thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy iu au hour so rude, 

' The alarm of danger was commnnicated by the watchman 
in garrisnn towns hy a bell. " He had a case oi- box to shelter 
him from the weather." 


And, in the calmest and most stillest night, 
With all appliauces aud means to boot. 
Deny it to a king? — Then, happj- low, lie down I 
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 


How far that little candle throws his beams! 
So shiues a good deed in a naughty world. 

Love all, trust a few. 
Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy 
Rather in power than use; aud keep thy friend 
Under thy own life's key: be checked for silence, 
Bnt never taxed for speech. 

The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Y'ea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; 
Aud, like this insubstantial iiageaut faded. 
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 
As dreams are made on, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

O world, thy slippery turns ! Friends now fast 

Whoso double bosoms seem to wear one heart. 
Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal, aud exercise, 
Are still together; who twin, as 'twere, iu love 
Unseparable, shall within this hour, 
On a dissension of a doit, break out 
To bitterest enmity: so, fellest foes. 
Whose passions and whose plots have broke their 

To take the one the other, by some chance, 
Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear 

And interjoin their issues. 

So it falls out. 
That what we have we prize not to the wonli, 
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lacked and lost, 
Why then we rack the value ; then we find 
The virtue that possession would not show ns 
Whiles it was ours. 

Cowards die many times before their deaths ; 
The valiant never taste of death bnt once. 
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. 
It seems to me most strange that men should fear ; 
Seeing that death, a necessary end, 
Will come when it will come. 



Our iudiscretion sometimes serves us well, 
WLieu our ileep plots do pall ; aud that should 

teach us, 
There's a diviuity that shapes our euds, 
Rougli-hew them how Tve will. 

There is some soul of gooduess in tbiugs evil, 
Would meu observingly distil it out. 
For our bad neighbor makes us early stirrers, 
Which is both healthful, aud good husbandry: 
Besides, they are our outward couscieuces, 
Aud preachers to us all; admouishiug, 
That we should dress us faiily for our end. 
Thus may we gather honey from the weed, 
Aud ni.ake a moral of the devil himself. 

O momentary grace of mortal men. 
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! 
Who builds his hope in air of your good looks, 
Lives like a druuken sailor on a mast; 
Ready with every uod to tumble down 
Into the fatal bowels of the deep. 

Who sh.all go .about 
To cozen fortune, aud be honorable 
Witbout the stamp of merit? Let none presume 
To wear an undeserviSd dignity. 
Oil estates, degrees, aud offices, 
Were not derived corruptly ! aud that clear honor 
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! 
How many then should cover that stand bare ; 
How many bo commanded, that command; 
How nuicb low peasantry would then be gleaned 
From the true seed of honor; aud how much honor 
Picked from the cliaft" aud ruin of the times 
To be uew varnished! 

iJoljn lUcbstcr. 

Webster {circa 1570-1640) and Thomas Dckker were 
partners in writing plays. Webster also wrote for the 
stage independently, and ranks among the chief of the 
minor EUzabeth.'in tragic dramatists. Cliarles Lamb said 
of the following dirge from "The White Devil," that he 
knew nothing like it, except the ditty that reminds Fer- 
dinand of his drowned father, in "Tlie Tempest." "As 
that is of llie water watery, so this is of the earth earthy." 


Call for the robin-redbreast aud the wren. 
Since o'er shady groves they hover, 

And with leaves and flowers do cover 

The friendless bodies of uuburied meu. 

Call uuto his funeral dole 

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, 

To rear Irim hillocks that shall keep him w.arm, 

And, when gay tombs are robbed, sustain no harm; 

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to meu, 

For with his nails he'll dig them up agaiu. 


This tragedy turns on the mortal offence which the duchess 
gives to her two pi-oud brothers by iudulgiug in a generous 
though infatuated passion fur Autouio, her steward. 

Cariola. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas! 
What will you do with my Lady? Call for help. 

Duchess. To whom ? to our uext ueighbors ? They 
are mad folks. 
Farewell, Cariola. 

I pray thee look thon giv'st my little boy 
Some sirup for his cold ; and let the girl 
Say her prayers ere she sleep. — Now what you 

What death ? 

Bosola. Strangling. Here are your executioners. 

Duch. I forgive them. 
The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, 
Would do as much as they do. 

Dos. Doth not death fright you ? 

Duch. Who would be afraid ou't. 
Knowing to meet such excellent company 
In the other world. 

Bos. Yet, methiuks, 
The manner of your death should much atBict you : 
This cord should terrify you. 

Duch. Not a whit. 
What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut 
With diamonds ? or to be smothered 
With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ? 
I know death hath ten thousand several doors 
For men to take their exits : aud 'tis found 
They go on such strange geometrical hinges. 
You may open them both ways : any way — for 

heaven sake — 
So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers 
That I peiceive death — now I'm well awake — 
Best gift is they can give or I can take. 
I would fain put off my last woman's fault ; 
I'd not be tedious to you. 

Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength 
Must jinll down heaven uiion me. 
Yet stay : heaven gates are not so highly arched 
As priuces' palaces ; they that enter there 



Must go upon tLeir knees. Come, violeut death, 
Serve for mandragora to make me sleej). 
Go, tell my brothers : when I am laid out. 
They then may feed in quiet. 

[Tlui) strangle licr, IcuccVmg. 

Sir Uobcvt Canton. 

A Scottish courtier and poet, Ayton (1570-1638) en- 
joyetl, lilie Drummond, the advantages of foreign travel, 
and of acquaintance with English poets. He was born 
in Fifcshire. Ben Jonson seemed proud of liis friend- 
ship, for he told Drummond that Sir Robert loved him 
(Jonson) dearly. Au edition of Ayton's poems was pub- 
lished as late as 1871. 


I loved thee once, I'll love no more ; 

Thine be the grief, as is the blame ; 
Thou art not what thou wast before : 
What reason I should be the same ? 
He that can love uuloved again 
Hath better store of love thau brain : 
God send me love my debts to pay. 
While uuthrifts fool their love away. 

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown. 

If thou badst still continued mine ; 
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, 
I might, perchance, have yet been thine. 
But thou thy freedom did recall. 
That if thou might elsewhere Intlirall ; 
And then how could I hut disdain 
A captive's ca^jtive to remain ? 

When new desires had conquered thee. 
And changed the object of thy will. 
It had been lethargy in me, 

Not constancy, to love thee still. 
Yea, it had been a sin to go 
And iirostitute affection so ; 
Since wo are taught no prayers to say 
To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice. 

Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice 
To see him gain what I have lost ; 
The height of my disdain shall bo 
To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
To love thee still, but go no more 

!vllcianbcr tjumc. 

Hume (circa 1560-1609) was a minister of the Scotch 
Kirk in the latter half of the seventeenth century. He 
published in Edinburgh, in 1599, a collection of " Hymns, 
or Sacred Songs," of which now only three copies are 
known to exist. The "Story of a Summer Day" has 
some precious passages, showing an original vein, but 
it is much too long. Campbell and Trench have both 
abridged it, and the same liberty has been taken iu tlie 
following version. Hume died in 1609. 


O perfect Light, which shaid' away 

The darkne-ss from the light. 
And set a ruler o'er the day. 

Another o'er the night, — 
Thy glory, when the day forth flies. 

More ■\'ively doth appear 
Thau at mid-day tiuto our eyes 

The shining sun is clear! 

The shadow of the earth anon 

Removes and draw<5s by. 
While in the east, when it is gone. 

Appears a clearer sky ; 
Which soon perceive the little larks. 

The lapwing, and the snipe. 
And tune their songs, like Nature's clerks 

O'er meadow, moor, and stripe. 
The dew upon the tender crops, 

Like iiearl6s white and round, 
Or like to melted silver drops, 

Refreshes all the ground. 
The misty reek, iu clouds of rain, 

From tops of mountains scales ; are the highest hills and plain. 

The vapors take the vales. 

The ample heaven, of fabric sure. 

In cleanness doth surpass 
The crystal and the silver pure, 

Or clearest polished glass. 
The time so tranquil is and still. 

That nowhere shall ye find. 
Save on a high and barren hill. 

An air of pijiing wind. 

^ Perfect of the verb to sche(i, or shed;, acheideti, to 
part, or separate from one auotlier. 



Calm is the deep and imrple sea, 

Yea, smoother than tlie sand ; 
The waves, that weltering wont to be, 

Are stable like the land. 
So silent is the cessile' air, 

That every crj' and eall. 
The hills and dales and forest fair, 

Again repeats them all. 

The sun, most like a speedy post, 

With ardent course ascends ; 
The beauty of the heavenly host 

Up to our zenith tends. 
* # if * # » 

The herds beneath some leafy tree — 

Amidst the flowers they lie ; 
The stable ships upon the sea 

Tend \\\> their sails to dry. 

With gilded eyes and open wings, 

The eock his courage shows ; 
With claps of joy his breast he dings, 

And twenty times he crows. 
The dove with whistling wings so blue 

The winds can fast collect, — 
Her purple pens turn many a hue 

Against the sun direct. 

Xow noon is went ; gone is mid-day ; 

The heat doth slake at last ; 
The sun descends down west away, 

For three o'clock is past. 
The rayons of the siin we see 

Diminish in their strength, 
The shade of every tower and tree 

E.xteuded is in length. 

The gloaming comes, the day is spent, 

The suu goes out of sight, 
And painted is the Occident 

With purple sanguine bright. 
What pleasure were to walk and see, 

End-lang a river clear. 
The ]ierfect form of every tree 

Within the deei) appear! 

Oh, then it were a seemly thing, 

AVhile all is still and calm, 
The praise of God to play and sing 

AVith cornet and with shalm ! 

I An nmutliorized woril, probably tlip equivnlent oi cessihle, 
yieldiug, giviug way ; from the Latiu, cedo, cessurtu 

All laborers draw homo at even. 

And can to other say, 
" Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, 

Which sent this summer day!" 

(Lljoinas Cjcniuooi). 

The dates of tliis writer's birth and death are unknown. 
He is found writing for tlic stage in 159G, and he contin- 
ued to exercise liis ready pen down to the year 16-10. He 
lived in the reigns of Elizaljeth, James I., and Charles I. 
He had, as he informs his readers, " an entire hand, or at 
least a main finger," in two hundred and twenty plays. 
He wrote, also, several prose works, besides attending to 
his busiuesss as an actor. Of liis plays only twenty-three 
h.ave come down to us; and among the best is "The 
Woman killed with Kindness." He seems to have been 
a man of genius; and liis "Search after God" is a very 
noble poem, showing that, in his higher moods, the true 
spirit of poesy animated the humble playwright. 


From " Tue Englisu Tkaveller." 

This gentleman and I 

Passed but just now by your next neighbor's Louse, 
Where, as they say, dwells one yonug Lionel, 
Au nnthrift youth ; his father now at sea : 
And there, this night, was held a sumptuous feast. 
In the height of their carousing, all their brains 
Wanned with the heat of wine, discourse was of- 
Of ships and storms at sea ; when, suddenly. 
Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives 
The room wherein they quafl'ed to be a pinnace, 
Moving and floating, and the confused uoiso 
To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners ; 
That their unsteadfast footing did iiroceed 
From rocking of the vessel. This conceived. 
Each one begins to apprehend the danger. 
And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one. 
Up to the main-top, and discover. He 
Climbs by the bedpost to the tester, there 
Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards. 
And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives, 
To cast their lading overboard. At this, 
All fall to work, and hoist into the street. 
As to the sea, what nest came to their hand — 
Stools, tables, tressels, trenchers, bedsteads, cups. 
Pots, i)late, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles ; 
They take liiiu for the boatswain : one lies strug- 



Upon the floor, as if lio swam for life ; 

A third tates the hass-viol for the cock-boat, 

Sits in the liollow on't, labors, aud rows ; 

His oar, the stick witli which the fiddler played ; 

A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to escape, 

As did Arion, on the dolphin's back. 

Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude, 

Watching without, and gaping for the spoil 

Cast from the windows, went by the ears about it. 

The constable is called to atone the broil ; 

Which done, and hearing such a noise within 

Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and finds 

In this confusion ; they adore his staff. 
And think it Xeptuiie's trident ; and that ho 
Comes with his Tritons (so they called his watch) 
To calm the tempest, and appease the waves : 
And at this point _we left them. 


Pack clouds away, and welcome day, 

With night we banish sorrow : 
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft, 

To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind. 

Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing ! nightingale, sing ! 

To give my love good-morrow. 

To give my love good-morrow, 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 

AVake from thy nest, robin-redbreast ! 

Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
Aud from each bill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow ! 
Blackbird aud thrush, in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 
To give my love good-morrow, 
Sing, birds, in e^ery furrow. 


I sought thee round about, O thou, my God ! 

In thine abode : 
I .said nuto the earth, " Speak, art thon he ?" 

She answered me, 
" I am not." I inquired of creatures all. 

In general, 

Contained therein : they with one voice proclaim 
That none amongst them challenged such a name. 

I asked the seas and all tbe deeps below. 

My God to know ; 
I asked the reptiles and whatever is 

lu the abyss : — ■ 
Even from the shrimp to the leviathan 

Inquiry ran ; 
But in those deserts which no line can sound, 
The God I sought for was not to be found. 

I asked the air if that were he ; but lo ! 

It told me " No." 
I from the towering eagle to the wren 

Demanded then, 
If any feathered fowl 'niongst them were such ; 

But they all, much 
Ofl'ended with my question, in full choir, 
Answered, "To find thy God thou must look higher." 

I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars; but they 

Said, " Wo obey 
The God thou seekest." I asked what eye or ear 

Could see or hear, — 
What in the world I might descry or know 

Above, below ; 
With an unanimous voice, all these things said, 
" We are not God, but we by him were made." 

I asked tlie world's great universal mass. 

If tliat God was ; 
Which with a mighty and strong voice replied. 

As stupefied, 
" I am not he, O man ! for know that I 

By him on high 
Was fashioned first of nothing ; thus instated 
And swayed by him by whom I was created." 

I sought the court; but smooth-tongued flattery 

Deceived each ear ; 
In the thronged city there was selling, buying. 

Swearing and lying; 
In the country, craft in sinipleness arrayed ; 

And then I said, — 
" Vain is my search, although my pains be great : 
Where my God is tliere can be no deceit." 

A scrutiny within myself I then 

Even thus began : 
'• O man, what art thou ?" What more could I say 

Thau dust and clay, — 



Frail mortal, fading, a mere pufi", a blast, 

Tliat cannot last ; 
Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn. 
Formed from that earth to which I umst return ? 

] asked myself what this great God might he 

That fashioned me ? 
I answered : The all-potent, sole, immense, — 

Snrpassiug sense ; 
I'uspeakable, inscrutable, eternal, 

Lord over all ; 
The only terrible, strong, just, and true. 
Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. 

He is the well of life, for he doth give 

To all that live 
Both breath and being ; he is the Creator 

Both of the water. 
Earth, air, and tire. Of all things that subsist 

Ho hath the list, — 
Of all the heavenly liost, or irhat earth claims. 
He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their 

And now, my God, by thine illumining grace. 

Thy glorious face 
(So far forth as it may discovered be) 

Methinks I see ; 
And though invisible and intinite 

To human sight, 
Thon, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest, 
lu whielj, to our weak sense, thou comest nearest. 

Oil, make us apt to seek, and quick to lind, 

Thou God, most kind ! 
Give ns love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust, 

Thou God, most just ! 
Remit all our offences, we entreat, 

Most good ! most great ! 
Grant that our \villing, though unworthy, quest 
May, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest. 

King 3amcs 3. of Cnglanii. 

James VI. of Scotland and I. of England (1566-163.5), 
the only offspring of Jlary, queen of Scots, by her sec- 
ond husband, Henry Stuart (Lord Darnlcy), was a prolific 
author, and wrote both prose and verse. The following 
sonnet from his pen will compare not unfavorably with 
the verses of some cnnfcmporary poets of fame. It is 
noteworthy that Mary, her son James, and her grandson, 
Charles I., all wrote poetry. 


God gives not kings the style of gods in vain. 
For on the throne liis sceptre do they sway; 
And as their subjects ought them to obey. 
So kings should fear and serve their God again. 
If, theu, yon would enjoy a happy reign, 
Observe the statutes of our heavenly King, 
Aud from his law make all your law to spring. 
If his lieutenant here you would remain. 
Reward the just; be steadfast, true, and plain ; 
Repress the iiroud, maintaining aye the right ; 
Walk always so as ever in His sight 
Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane ; 
And so shall yon in princely virtues shine. 
Resembling right yonr mighty King divine. 

(Ll)oinas ^'asl). 

Nash (circa 1.564-1600) wrote a comedy called "Sum- 
mer's Last Will and Testament," which was acted before 
Queen Elizabeth in 1593. He was also concerned with 
Marlowe in writing the tragedy of "Dido." He was 
the Churchill of his day, and filmed for his satires. He 
speaks of bis life as "spent in fantastical satirism, in 
whose veins heretofore I misspent my spirit, and prodi- 
gally conspired ag.iinst good hours." 


Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king : 
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring. 
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, 
Cuckoo, juff-jiKj, pii-tcc, to-u-ilt u-imo. 

The palm and May make country gay. 
Lambs frisk and i)lay, the shepherds pipe all day, 
And wo hear aye birds tune this merry lay. 
Cuckoo, jiig-jitg, pu-wc, to-u'Ut a-woo. 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet. 
Young lovers meet, old-wives a-snnuing sit, 
In every street these tunes our ears do greet. 
Cuckoo, jiKj-jiig, pn-we, to-xeitt a-ifoo. 
Spring, the sweet Spring ! 


Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure : 
Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure ! 
Short days, sharp days, long nights, come on ajiace. 
Ah, who shall hide us from tho winter's face? 



Ci>l(l tlotU iuerease, the sickness will not cease, 
Anil here -we lie, God knows, with little ease. 
From winter, jtlague, and pestilence. 
Good Lord, deliver us ! 

London doth mourn, Lamheth is quite forlorn ! 
Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born ! 
The want of term is town and city's harm : 
Close chambers we do want to keep us warm. 
Long banished must wo live now from our friends: 
This low-built house will bring us to our ends. 
From winter, plague, and pestilence, 
Good Lord, deliver us! 


Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts, there- 
fore ; 
So fair a summer look for nevermore : 
All good things vanish less than in a day ; 
Peace, jileuty, pleasure, suddenly decay. 

Go not yet away, bright sonl of the sad year ; 

The earth is hell when thou leavest to ap- 
What ! shall those flowers that decked thy garland 

Upon thy grave be wastefnlly dispersed ? 
O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source! 
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course ! 

Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year ; 

The earth is hell when tlion leavest to appear. 

Sir C)cnrri lHotton. 

Wotton (1568-1639), a gentleman of Kent, was ambas- 
sador at Venice, under James I., and afterward Provost 
of Eton. He wrote a short poem " in praise of angling," 
and was the friend of Izaak Walton. As an early discov- 
erer of Mdton's transcendent genius, he showed his su- 
perior literary culture. Of the finnous little poem, " Tlie 
Happy Life," Trench tells us there are at least half a doz- 
en texts, with an infinite variety of readings, these being 
particularly numerous in the third stanza, which is, in- 
deed, somewhat obscure as it now stands. Tlie lieliqidw 
Wuttonianw, in wliieli the poem was first published, ap- 
peared in 1651, some twelve years after Wottou's death ; 
but much earlier MS. copies are in existence : thus one, 
in the handwriting of Edward AUeyn, apparently of date 
1616. In some versions the word accusers is changed to 
oppressors in the last line of the fourth stanza. A little 
reflection will show that the former is the preferable 
word. Both Trench and Palgrave so regard it, and adopt 
it as the more autheutic reading. 


Yon meaner beauties of the night. 
Which poorly satisfy our eyes. 

More by your number than your light, — 
Y(m conmion people of the skies. 
What are you when the Moou shall rise ? 

You violets that first appear. 

By your pure purple mantles knowu, 

Like the proud virgins of the year. 
As if the spring were all your own, — 
What are you when the Rose is blown ? 

You curious chanters of the wood. 

That warble forth D.ame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your passions understood 

By your weak accents, — what's your praise, 
When Philomel her voice doth raise f 

So when my Mistress shall be seen 
lu form and beauty of her miud. 

By virtue first, theu choice, a Queen, 
Tell me, if she were not designed 
The eclii)se and glory of her kind ? 


How happy is ho boru and taught 
That serveth not another's will ! 

Whose armor is his honest thought. 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are ; 

Whose soul is still prepared for death ; 
Not tied unto the world with care 

Of pnblic fame or private breath : 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 

Who hath his life from rumors freed ; 

Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 

Nor rniu make accusers great : 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend, 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend ; — 



This man ia freed from servile bauds 
Of liopc to rise, or fear to fall ; 

Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

iJoljn Cillj). 

Lilly {circa 1551-1601 ) was a native of Kent. His i^rin- 
eipal work was a prose romance ealled " Euphues." The 
name of the book has passed, as an abstract term, into 
our lanijuage ; but the book itself is no longer read, and 
the cuphuislic method of expression is chiefly known to 
us in these days by caricatures. Lilly wrote nine plays, 
in which some songs occur. The following is from his 
play of " Campaspc," 1584. 


C'npid and my Canipaspe played 

At cards for kisses; Cnpid paid. 

He stakes his qniver, bow, and arrows, 

His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; 

Loses them too; then down ho throws 

Tlio coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on his cheek, but none knows how 

With these the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple of his chin : — 

All these did my Campaspo win. 

At last ho set her both his eyes ; 

Sho won, and Cujiid blind did rise. 

O Love ! has she done this to thee ? 

Wliat shall, alas, become of me ! 

f)cuvii Olonstablc. 

Born about 1.5fi0, and educated at Oxford, Constable 
published, in 1584, "Diana, or the excellent conceitful 
sonnets of II. C." The volume reprinted for the 
Roxburghc Club in 1818. The following is from "Eng- 
land's Helicon," first published in 1600. 


Diaphcnia, like the dalTadowTidilly, 

White as tho sun, fair as the lily, 
H<'igh-ho, how I do love thee ! 

I do love thee as my Iambs 

Are belovM of their dams ; 
How blest were 1 if thou wonld'st prove me ! 

Diaphenia, like the siircading roses, 
That in thy sweets all sweets enclosec, 

Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! 
I do love thee as each flower 
Loves the snn's life-giving power; 

For dead, thy breath to life might move me. 

Diaiihenia, like to all things bless<!d, 
When all thy praises are expressed, 

Dear joy, how I do love thee ! 

As tho birds do love the spring. 
Or tho bees their carefnl king : 

Then in reqnite, sweet virgin, love mc ! 

iostplj tjall. 

Hall (1574^1656), bishop successively of Exeter in 1627, 
and of Norwich in 1641, is remembered chiefly for his 
prose theological works, written in the reigns of James 
and Charles. His only poems were a collection of Sat- 
ires, composed at Cambridge University before his twen- 
ty-third year. They were condemned to be burnt in 
1.599, by an order of Bishop Bancroft. Hall's satire on 
the amatory poets of his day, of which we give a speci- 
men, is coarse, but apt aud pithy. 


Lord, what am I ? A worm, dust, vajior, nothing ! 
Wliat is my life ? A dream, a daily dying ! 
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasy clothing! 
What is my time ? A miunte ever flying ! 

My time, my flesh, my life, and I — 

What are we, Lonl, but vanity ? 

Where am I, Lord ? Down in a vale of death ! 

What is my trade? Sin, my dear God oftending; 

My sport, sin too! my stay a pnff of breath! 

What end of .sin? Hell's horror never-ending! 
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place 
Help to make np my doleful case. 

Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss! 

Where dwell'st thou? Up above in perfect liglit. 

Wlnit is thy Time? Eternity it is. 

What state? Attendance of each glorious spirit. 
Thyself, thy place, thy days, thy state 
Pass all the thoughts of powers create. 

How .shall I reach thee. Lord ? Oh, soar above, 

Ambitious soul! But which w.ay should I fly ? 

TIiou, Lord, art way and end. What wings have I? 

Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love. 
Oh, let these wings that way alone 
Present mo to thy blissful throne! 



Satire III., Book II. 

Great is tUo folly of a feeble brain 

O'eiTuled with love aud tyrannous disdain : 

Por love, however in the basest breast 

It breeds high thoughts that feed the fancy best, 

Yet is he blind, aud leads poor fools awry. 

While they hang gazing on their mistress' eye. 

The love-sick poet, whose importune prayer 

Eepuls<5d is with resolute despair, 

Iliipeth to conquer his disdainful dame 

With public plaints of his conceiv<?d Unme. 

Then pours he forth in patched sonnetings 

His love, his lust, aud loathsome flatterings ; 

,Vs though the staring world hanged on his sleeve, 

When once he smiles to laugh, and when he sighs 

to grieve. 
C'arcth the world thou love, thou live, or die ? 
Careth the world how fair tliy i'air one be ? 
Fond wit-wal, that wonldst load thy witless head 
With timely horns before thy bridal bed! 
Then can he term his dirly, ill-faced bride 
Lady aud queen and virgin deified: 
Be she all sooty-bl.ack or berry-brown. 
She's white as morrow's milk or flakes new-blown : 
And though she be some dunghill drndge at home. 
Yet can he her resign some refuse room 
Amidst the well-known stars ; or if not there. 
Sure will he saint her in his Kalendere. 

lolju illavstou. 

Marston, a rough but vigorous satu'ist and dramatic 
writer, produced liis "Malcontent," a comedy, prior to 
leOO. Ho was educated at Oxford, became lecturer at 
tlie Middle Temple, aud died in 103.3. He wrote eight 
plays, and three books of Satires, called "The Scourge 
of Vilhiny." 


I was a scholar : seven useful springs 
Did I deflower in quotations 
Of crossed opinions 'bout the soul of man ; 
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt. 
Delight, my spaniel, slept, while I turned le.ave.s. 
Tossed o'er the dunces, pored on the old print 
Of titled words: aud still my spaniel slept; 
Whilst I w.asted lamp-oil, baited my flesh, 
Shrunk up my veins : and still my spaniel slept ; 
And still I held converse with Zabarell, 
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw 

Of antick Donate : still my spaniel slept. 

Still on went I; first, «» sit anima ; 

Then, an it were mortal. Oh, hold, hold ! at that 

They're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain 

Pell-mell together : still my spaniel slept. 

Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixed. 

Ex traduce; but whether 't had free-will 

Or no ; hot philosophers 

Stood banding factiou.s, all so strongly propjjed, 

I staggered, knew not which was firmer part. 

But thought, quoted, read, observed, and pried, 

Stnti'ed noting-books : aud still my sp.auiel slept. 

At length he waked, and yawned ; and by yon sky. 

For aught I know, ho knew as much as I. 


Foul canker of fair virtuous action, 

Vile blaster of the freshest blooms on earth. 

Envy's abhorred child, Detraction, 

I here expose to thy all-tainting breath 

The issne of my brain : snarl, rail, bark, bite; 

Know that my spirit scorns Detraction's spite. 

Know that the Genius which attendeth on 

And guides my powers intellectual, 

Holds in all vile repute Detraction. 

My soul — an essence metaphysical. 

That in the basest sort scorns critic's rage, 
Because he knows his sacred parentage, — 

My spirit is not imfl'cd up with fiit fume 
Of slimy ale, nor Bacchus' heating grape. 
My mind disdains the dungy, muddy scum 
Of abject thoughts aud Envy's raging hate. 
True judgment slight regards Opinion, 
A sprightly wit disdains Detraction. 

A partial praise shall never elevate 

My settled censure of my own esteem : 

A cankered verdict of malignant hate 

Shall ne'er provoke me worse mj-self to deem. 

Spite of despite and rancor's villauy, 

I am myself, so is my poesy. 

Dr. 3o[}n Poimc. 

Donne (1.573-1631) was born in London, aud as a child a prodigy of learning. He became Chaplain in Ordi- 
nary to James I., and Dean of St. Paul's. Much against 
the wishes of his devoted wife, he accompanied Sir Rob- 
ert Drury on an embassy to Paris. While there, Donne 



had a isincnlar vision, wliich is often rcproducecl among 
stoi'ics of psychical or supersensual power. He saw (as 
Izaali Walton narrates) the apparition of his ■nife enter 
his room, bearing a dead child ; and shortly after he 
heard that his wife had been delivered of a still-born 
child at the very moment. The best known poetical 
writings of Donne are his "Satires," and "The Progress 
of the Soul." His poems are characterized by brilliant 
wit, depth of reflection, and terseness of language; but 
his versitication is generally rugged and uncoutli, and he 
is often so obscure as to task the closest attention. 


Death, be not proud, though some have calldd thee 
Mighty and dreadful ; for thou art uot so : 
YoY those whom thou thiuk'st thou (lost overthrow 
Die uot, poor Death ; uor yet caust thou kill me. 
Prom rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, 
Much pleasure ; then from thee much more must 

Aud soonest our best men with theo do go. 
Rest of their bones, aud soul's delivery! 
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, hiug.s, aud desperate 

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell ; 
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well. 
Or better, than thy stroke : why swell'st thou then ? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
Aud Death shall be no more : Death, thou shalt die ! 


Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie! 

* # ^ * # * 

But think that_ Death hath now enfranchised thee! 
Aud think tliis slow-paced Soul which late did 

To a body, and went but by the body's leave. 
Twenty, perchance, or thirty miles a day, 
Desi)atches in a minute all the way 
'Twixt heaven aud earth ! She stays not in the air. 
To lo(dc what meteors there themselves pn^parc ; 
She carries no desire to know, nor sense, 
Whetlier the air's middle region is intense ; 
For the element of fire, she doth not know 
Whether she passed by such a place or no ; 
She baits not at the moon, nor cares to try 
Whether in that new world men live and die; 
Venus retards her not to iuquire how she 
Can, being one star, Hesper and Vesper bo. 
He that charmed Argus' eyes, sweet Mercury, 
Works uot on her who now is grown all eye; 

Who, if she meet the body of the Sun, 
Goes through, not stayiug till her course be run ; 
Who finds in Mars's camp no corps of guard ; 
Nor is by Jove, nor by his father, barred ; 
But, ere she can consider how she went, 
At once is at, and through, the firmament : 
Aud, as these stars were but so many beads 
Strung on oue string, speed undistinguished leads 
Her through those spheres, as through those bead;i 

a string. 
Whose quick succession makes it still oue thing : 
As doth the pith which, lest our bodies slack, 
Strings fast the little bones of neck aud back. 
So by the Soul doth Death string Heaven and 


She of whose soul, if we may say 'twas gold, 
Her body was the Electrum, aud did hold 
Many degrees of that — we understood 
Her by her sight : her pure aud eloquent blood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wi-ought, 
Tliat one might almost say her body thought. 
Slic, she, thus richly, largely housed, is goue. 
And chides us slow-jiaced snails who crawl upon 
Our prison's prison. Earth, uor think us well 
Louger than whilst we bear our little shell. 

— She whom we celebrate is goue before : 
She who had here so much essential joy, 
As no chance could distract, much less destroy ; 
Who with God's presence was acquainted .so 
(Hearing aud speaking to him) as to know 
His face in any natural stone or tree 
Better than when iu images they be ; 
Who kept, by diligent devotion, 
God's image in such reparation 
Within her heart, that what decay was grown 
Was her first Parent's fault, and not her own ; 
Who, being solicited to any act, 
Still heard God pleading his safe pre-contract ; 
Who by a faithful confidence was here 
Betrothed to God, and now is married there ; 
Whose twilights were more clear than our mid- 
day ; 
Who dreamed devoutlier than most use to pray: 
Who, being hero filled with grace, yet .strove to be 
Both where more grace aud more capacity 
At once is given. She to Heaven is goue, 
Who made this world iu some proportion 
A heaven, and here became unto us all 
Joy (as our joys admit) essential. 



Ben iJouson. 

Jouson (157+-1G37) was thirty years old at the death 
of Queen Elizabeth. He was ten years young-er than 
Sliakspeare, and survived liim twenty -one years, livins; 
on ahnost to the troubled close of tlie reign of Charles I. 
Born in the North of England of humble parentage, Jon- 
son, after a period of soldier life in the Low Countries, 
where he fought bravely, settled in London, married, 
and took to literature and the stage as a. means of live- 
lihood. He tried his fortune as an aetor, but did not 
succeed. A duel with a brother actor, whom, unhapiii- 
ly, he killed, caused his confinement for a time in jail. 
While there, he was visited by a priest ; and his mind 
being turned to religious subjects, he became a Roman 
Catholic, and continued one for twelve years. After 
that, when at the height of his fame and prosperity, he 
once more professed himself a member of the Church 
of England. But an estimate of the quality of his relig- 
ious feeling may be formed from the fact that, on partak- 
ing of the Holy Communion for the first time after this 
event, he quafl'ed oB" the entire contents of the chalice! 
" He did everything lustily," says one of his recent biog- 
raphers, as a eorament on this incident. Whether "lust- 
ily" or through simple love of good liquor, and in uu- 
eoncern as to the proprieties, may remain a question. 
Probably it was done in the spirit of the reply of Theo- 
dore Hook, who, when asked by the College functionary 
if he could sign the Thirty-niue Articles, said, "Yes,j(^/-- 
l>/, if you wish it." 

On his release from prison, Jonson sprang at once into 
fame by his still-acted play of "Every Man in his Hu- 
mor," in the representation of which no less a person 
than Shakspeare took a part. Jonson's works consist 
mainly of dramas and masks, of which he produced, in 
all, more than fifty. Poverty cast a gloom over his last 
years ; he was obliged to solicit assistance from old 
friends; and so the bright life dimmed, and flickered, 
and went out. His mortal remains were buried in the 
north aisle of Westminster Abbey ; and Sir John Toung, 
a gentleman from Oxford, visiting the spot, gave eigli- 
teen-pence to a mason, to cut upon the flag-stone cover- 
ing the poet's clay this epitaph: " Jiare -Ben Jonsou .'" 
Such, at least, is the tradition. 




To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, 
Am I thu-s ample to thy book and fame ; 
While I confess thy writings to he such 
As neither man nor muse can praise too raiicb. 

I. therefore, will begin : Soul of the age ! 
The applause, delight, and wonder of our stage ! 
My Shakspeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by 
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumout lie 

A little farther oft', to make thee room : 
Thou art a monument without a tomb, 
Anil art alive still, while thy book doth live, 
And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 

* * ;# if *^ * 
Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show 
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
Ho was not for an age, but for all time ; 
And all the muses still were in their jirime 
When, like Apollo, ho came forth to warm 
Our ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm. 
Nature herself was proud of his designs, 
And joj'ed to wear the dressiug of his lines. 

* if * * * # 
Sweet Swau of Avon, what a sight it were 
To see thee iu our water yet appear. 

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames 
That did so take Eliza and our James ! 
But stay! I see thee iu the hemisphere 
Advanced, and made a constellation there. 
Shine forth, thou star of poets! and with rage 
Or influence chide or cheer the drooping stage. 
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned 

like night, 
And despairs day but for thy volume's light. 


From "A Celebration of Cuaris." 

See the chariot at band here of Love, 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goe? all hearts do duty 

Uuto her beauty ; 
And, enamored, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a siglit, 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither she would 

Do bnt look ou her ej-es, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth ! 
Do but look ou her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 

Thau w ords that soothe her ! 
And from her arched brows, such a grace 
Sheds itself through the face. 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 



Have you sceu but a brigbt lily grow, 
Before rnde hands have touched it ? 
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow 

Before the soil hath smutched it ? 
Have you felt the wool of beaver? 

Or svrau's-down ever ? 
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier ? 

Or the nard in the fire ? 
Or have tasted tlie bag of the bee? 
O so white ! so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 


From "Cynthia's Revels." 

Qiieeu and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 

Seated in thy silver chair. 

State iu wonted manner keep : 

Hesperus entreats thy light. 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to Interpose ; 
Cj'nthia's shining orb has made 

Heaven to clear when day did close : 
Bless us then with wished sight. 

Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy crystal shining quiver; 

Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever : 

Thon that raak'st a day of night, 
Goddess excellentiv bright! 


This figure that thou here seest put, 

It was for genlle Shakspeare cut, 

AVlierein the graver had a strife 

With nature, to outdo the life: 

Oh could he but have drawn liis wit. 

As well in brass, as he hath hit 

His face ; the print would then surpass 

All that was ever writ in brass : 

But since he cannot, reader, look 

Not on his picture, but his book. 

* The attestntinn of Ben Jonson to the first eugrraved portrnit 
of Shakspeare 6ccms to prove its fidelity as a likeness. The 
jioilrait corresponds with Ihe nioi]iunenlal effigy at Stratford. 


Where dost thou careless lie ? 

Buried iu ease and sloth ? 
Kuowledge that sleeps doth die ; 
And this security 

It is the common moth 
That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them 

Are all the Aoniau springs 

Dried up f lies Thespia waste ? 
Doth Clarius" harp want strings. 
That not a nymph now sings? 

Or droop they as disgraced, 
To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies 
defaced ? 

If heucc thj' silence be, 

As 'tis too just a cause. 
Let this thought quicken thee : 
Miuds that are great and free 

Should not on Fortune pause ; 
'Tis crown enough to Virtue still, — her own a^i- 

What though the greedy fry 

Be taken with false baits 
Of worded balladry, 
And think it poesy ? 

They die with their conceits, 
And only piteous scorji upon their folly waits. 

Then tiikc in hand thy lyre. 

Strike in thy proper strain, 
With Japhet's" line, aspire 
Sol's chariot for new fire 

To give the world again : 
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. 

And, since our dainty age 

C'aunot endure reproof. 
Make not thyself a page 
To that strumpet the stage. 

But sing high and aloof. 
Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull as.s's 

^ A surname of Apollo, derived from liis famous temple at 
Claros, in Asia Minor. 

2 Prometheus, son of lapetu?, is here referred to; identified 
by Jonson with Japhet, tlie son of Noah. According to the le- 
gend, it was by the aid of Minerva, tlie "issue of Jove's brain," 
that Prometheus ascended to heaven, and there stole from the 
chariot of the Sun the fire which he broughi down to earth. 




Uiulerneath this sable bearse 
Lies the snlijeet of all verse, 
Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 
Death, ere thou bast slain another. 
Learned, and fair, and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee ! 


Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed ; 

Lady, it is to be jiresumed, 

Thongh art's bid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace; 
Eobes loosely flowiug, hair as free; 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art. 
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 


Wouklst thou bear what man can say 

lu a little ? Header, stay. 

tliulerneath this stone doth lie 

As much beauty as could die. 

Which in life did harbor give 

To more virtue than doth live. 

If at all she had a fault, 

Leave it buried in this vault. 

One name was Elizabeth ; 

The other, let it sleep with death: 

Fitter where it died to tell 

Thau that it lived at all. Farewell! 


Drink to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will jiledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The tliirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup 

I would not cban™ for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee, 
As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe, 

And seut'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. 

Not of itself, but thee. 


It is not growing like a tree 

In bulk, doth make men better be ; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far iu May, 

Although it fall and die that night; 

It was the plant and flower of light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 

Sir JJol)n Dauics. 

Davics (I.5T0-1626), an English barrister, was tlie au- 
thor of "Nosce Teipsum" (Know Tliysclf), a poem on 
the immortality of the soul. It bears the date of 1603, 
when Davics was about thirty-two years old. It was 
printed five times during his life. In 1.598 Davies was 
ejected from membership in the Society of the Middle 
Temple, for having thnislied a man within the sacred 
precincts of tliat Inn of Court. But he was an able law- 
yer; and having won the favor of King James, he rose 
from one legal distinction to .another, and was kniglited 
in 1007. 


Again, how can she but be. 

When with the motions of both will aud wit, 

She still aspireth to eternity, 

And never rests till she attain to it ? 

At first her mother earth she holdeth dear, 

Aud doth embrace the world and worldly things ; 

She flies close by the ground, aud hovers here, 
And mounts not up with her celestial wings. 

Yet uuder heaven she cannot light on aught 
That with her heavenly nature doth agree ; 

She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought, 
She cannot iu this world contented be. 



For Viho ilid ever yet in bouor, wealth, 

Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find ? 

■\Vlio ever ceased to wisli, vrLeu he had health ; 
Or, having wisdom, was not vexed in mind ? 

Then, as a hee, which among weeds doth fall, 
Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh aud 

She lights on that, aud this, and tasteth all. 
But, pleased with none, doth rise aud soar away. 

So, when the sonl finds here no true content, 
Aud, like Noah's dove, cau no sure footing take. 

She doth return from whence she first was sent, 
Aud flics to Him that first her wings did make. 

From " Nosce Teipsuji." 

I know my body's of so frail a kind. 

As force without, fevers within, can kill; 

I know the heavenly nature of my mind ; 
But 'tis corrupted both in wit aud will. 

I know my soul hath power to know all things, 
Yet is she blind aud ignorant in all ; 

I know I'm one of Nature's little kiugs. 
Yet to the least aud vilest thing am thrall. 

I know my life's a pain, aud but a span ; 

I know my sense is mocked in everything; 
And, to conclude, I know mjself a Mau ; 

Which is a proud aud yet a wretched thiug. 

Ucaumont anb Jlctrljcr. 

Francis Beaumont (1586-1616) and John Fletcher (1.576- 
1625) were intimate fileuds ; " the Orestes and Pylades 
of the poetical world." Both were of good descent. 
Bciiuniorit's father was a Judge of the Common Pleas ; 
Fletcher was the sou of the Bishop of London, and had 
for cousins Phineas and Giles Fletehcr, the one the au- 
thor of "The Purple Island," a tedious allegorical poem; 
the other the author of "Christ's Victory and Triumph," 
a work from which Milton is said to luive borrowed a 
feather or two. 

There was a difference of ten years between the ages 
of Beaumont and Fletcher. The latter, who was the 
elder, survived his friend nine years, continued to write, 
and died at the age of forty-nine. Beaumont died at 
thirty, in 1616, the same year as Shakspeare. Beaumont's 
poetical taste, it was said, controlled, in their joint work, 
Fletcher's luxuriuuce of wit and fancy. Their united 

works amount to about fifty dramas, and were very pop- 
ular in their day, even more so than those of Shakspeare 
and Jonson. As lyrical and descriptive poets they are 
entitled to high praise. Their diamas are sprightly, aud 
abound in poetical ornament, but are often censurable 
for looseness of plot, repulslveness of subject, and laxity 
of moral tone. 


Fbom " Nice Valor ; or, The Passionate Madman." 

Hence, all yon vain delights. 
As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly ! 
There's naught in this life sweet, 
If mau were wise to see 't. 

But only melancholy : 

O sweetest melancholy ! 

Welcome, folded arms, and fix<5d eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fastened to the ground, 
A tongue chained up without a sound! 

Fonutaiu-heads, aud pathless groves, 
Places which jiale jiassion loves. 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed, save bats aud owls ! 
A midnight bell, a parting groan. 
These are the souuds we feed upon ; 
Then stretch our bones iu a still gloomy valley : 
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy I 


From "The Faise Onk." 

Oh thou conqueror, 
Thou glory of the world once, now the jjity ; 
Thou awe of natious, wherefore didst thou fall thus ? 
What poor fate followed thee, and plucked thee ou 
To trust tliy sacred life to an Egyptian ? — 
The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger, 
That honorable war ne'er taught a uohleuess, 
Nor worthy circumstance showed what a man 

was f — 
That never heard thy name sung but in banquets 
Aud loose lascivious plea.sures ? — to a boy 
That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, 
No study of thy life to know thy gooduess ? — 

I Milton seems to have taken some hiut8 for his '* II Pease- 
roso" from this song. 



Aud leave thy uatiou, nay, thy noble friend, 
Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee — 
III soft relenting tears ? Hear me, great Pompey, 
If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee, 
Thou hast most uuuobly robbed me of my victory, 
My love aud mercy. 

Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyramids. 
Built to out-dure the sun, as you suppose, 
Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes, 
Are monuments fit for him ? No, brood of Nilns, 
Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven; 
No pyramids set off his memories, 
Biit the eternal substance of his greatness ; 
To which I leave him. 


Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, 
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
On this aiilicted prince : fall like a cloud 
In gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud 
Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet, 
And as a purling stream, thou sou of Night, 
Pass by his troubled senses ; siug his pain. 
Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain. 
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, 
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 


Fbancis Beaumont. 

Mortality, behold aud fear ! 

What a change of flesh is here ! 

Think how many royal boues 

Sleep within these heaps of stones! 

Here they lie, had realms and lands, 

Who now want strength to stir their hands. 

Where from their pulpits, sealed with dust. 

They preach, "lu greatness is no trust." 

Here's an acre sown indeed 

With the richest, royalest seed 

That the earth did e'er suck in, 

Since the first man died for sin : 

Here the bones of birth have cried, 

" Though gods they were, as men they died." 

Here are sands, ignoble things, 

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings : 

IT, re's a W'.'.i.i of pomp and state 

Buried iu dust, ouce dead by fate. 


Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving 
Lock me iu delight awhile ; 
Let some ideasiug dreams beguilo 
All my fancies ; that from thence 
I may feel aii influence. 

All my powers of care bereaving ! 

Though bnt a shadow, but a sliding, 
Let me kuow some little joy ! 
We that suffer long auui>y 
Are contented with a thought. 
Through an idle fancy wrought : 

Oh, let my joys have some abiding ! 


Take, oh take those lips away. 
That so sweetly were forsworn, 

And those ej"es, the break of day. 
Lights that do mislead the mom ! 

But my kisses bring again, 

Seals of love, though sealed iu vain. 

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow. 
Which thy frozen bosom bears. 

On whose tops the pinks that grow 
Are of those that April wears : 

But first set my poor heart free. 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 


Seleucus. Let no man fear to die : we love to 
sleep all. 
And death is but the sounder sleep : all ages. 
And all hours call us; 'tis so common, easy. 
That little children tread those paths before us. 
Wo are not sick, nor our souls pressed with sorrows. 
Nor go we out like tedious tales forgotten : 
High, high, we come, and hearty to our funerals ; 
Ami as the sun, that sets iu blood, let's fivll. 

Li/simachiis. 'Tis true they have us fast: we can- 
not 'scape 'em ; 
Nor keeps tlie brow of Fortune one smile for ns. 
Dishonorable ends we can escape, though, 
Aiul worse thau those, captivities : we can die ; 
And, dying nobly, though wo leave beliind us 
These clods of flesh, that are too massy burdens, 
Our living souls fly crowned with living conquests. 




Lay a garland ou my liearse 

Of the tlisnial yew ; 
Maidens, willow branches bear ; 

Say, I died trne : 
My love was false, bnt I was firm 

From my hour of birth : 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, geutle earth ! 


What sacritice of thanks, what age of service. 
What danger of more dreadful look than death, 
What williug martyrdom to crowu me constant, 
May merit such a goodness, such a sweetness ? 
A love so uobly great no power can ruin : 
Most blessed maid, go on : the gods that gave 

This pure unspotted love, the Child of Heaven, 
In tlieir own goodness must preserve and save it, 
And raise jou a reward beyond our recompense. 

ipijilij] illassingcr. 

Mnssinscr (circa 1.584-1640) began to write plays in the 
reign of James I. Like many of his literary brethren, 
he was poor, and one morning was found dead in his bed 
at Southwark. No stone marks liis neglected resting- 
place, but ill tlic parish register appears this brief me- 
morial : "March 20, 1639-1640.— Buried Philip Massin- 
ger, a stranger." His sepulchre was like his life — ob- 
scure. Like the nightingale, he sang darkling— it is to 
be feared, like the nightingale of the fiible, with his 
breast against a thorn. Eighteen of his plays are in 
print; and one of these, "A New Way to Pay Old 
Debts," is still often played at our theatres. Sir Giles 
Overreach, a greedy, crafty money -getter, is the great 
character of this powerful drama. This part was among 
the best personations of Kean and Booth. 

From " The Emperoe of tue East." 

Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble. Death, 

To stop a wretch's breath 
That calls on thee, and oilers her sad heart 

A prey unto thy dart ? 
I am nor young nor fair ; bo, therefore, bold. 

Sorrow hath made me old, 

Deformed, and wrinkled ; all that I can crave 

Is quiet in my grave. 
Such as live happy hold long life a jewel ; 

But to mo thou art cruel 
If thou end uot my tedious misery. 

And I soou cease to be. 
Strike, and strike home, then ; pity unto mc, 

In one short hour's delay, is tyranny. 


Mary. Your pleasure, sir ? 

Oreireaeh. Ha! this is a neat dressing! 
These orient pearls and diamonds -well placed too ! 
The gown affects me not : it should have heeu 
Embroidered o'er and o'er with flowers of gold ; 
Bnt these rich jewels and quaint fashion help it. 
And how below ? since oft the wanton eye, 
The face observed, descends uuto the foot, 
Which, being well-proportioned, as yours is. 
Invites as much as perfect white and red. 
Though without art. 
How like you your new woman. 
The Lady Downfallen ? 

Mary. Well for a companion, 
Not for a servant. * *• * I pity her fortune. 

Orer. Pity her? Trample on her! 

Mary. You know your own ways ; but for me, 
I blush 
When I command her, that was once attended 
With persons not iuferior to myself 
In birth. 

Orcr. In birth ? Why, art thou not my daugh- 
The blest child of my industry and wealth ? 
Why, foolish girl, was 't not to make tliee great 
That I have run, and still pursue, tliose ways 
That hale down curses on me, which I mind not ? 
Part witli these humble thoughts, aud apt thyself 
To the noble state I labor to advance thee ; 
Or, by my hopes to see thee honorable, 
I will adopt a stranger to my heir, 
Aud throw thee from my care ! do not provoke me ! 

3oljn Jorb. 

Ford (15S6-1639), a Devonshire man, belonged to the 
brilliant dramatic brotherhood of his period. He united 
authorship with practice as a lawyei-. Hnllnm says that 
Ford has "the power over tears;" but his themes are 
often painful and eveu revolting. 




From " The Loyee'3 Melancuoly." 

Mci)a2>ho)i. Passiug from Italy to Greece, the tales 
WbicU i)oets of an elder time Lave fciguecl 
To glorify tlieir Tempe bred in me 
Desire of visiting that Paradise. 
To Tliessaly I came : and living private, 
Without acqnaintanco of more sweet companions 
Thau the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 
I day bj' day frequented silent groves 
And solitary walks. One morning early 
This accident encountered me : I heard 
Tlie sweetest and most ravishing contention 
Tliat art and natui'c ever were at strife in. 

Aimthiis. I cannot yet conceive what you infer 
By art and nature. 

Men. I sliall soon resolve you. 
A sound of music touched mine cars, or, ratlicr, 
Indeed, entranced my soul : as I stole nearer, 
Invited by the melody, I saw 
Tliis youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, 
With strains of strange variety and harmony, 
Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge 
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds, 
Tlmt, as they flocked about liiin, all stood silent, 
Wondering at what they lieard. I wondered tOo. 

Amet. And so do I. Good! On — 

Men. A nightingale, 
Nature's best-skilled musician, undertakes 
The challenge ; and for every several strain 
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her 

He could not run divisions with more art 
Upon his quaking instrument, than she, 
The nightingale, did, with her various notes, 
Reply to ; for a voice, and for a sound, 
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe 
Tliat such they were than hope to hear again. 

Anwt. How did the rivals part? 

Men. You term them rightly ; 
For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony. — 
Some time thu.s spent, the young man grew at last 
Into .a pretty anger that a bird, 
Wliom art had never taught cliti's, moods, or notes, 
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study 
Had busied many hours to perfect jiractice. 
To end the controversy, — in a rapture 
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftlv, 
So many voluntaries, and so quick, 
That there was curiosity and cunning. 
Concord in discord, lines of diflfering method 
Meeting in one full centre of delight. 

Aynet. Now for the bird. 

Men. The bird, ordained to bo 
Music's first martyr, strove to imitate 
These several sounds ; which when her warbling 

Failed in, for grief down dropt she on his lute, 
And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness 
To see the conqueror upon her hearse 
To weep a funeral elegy of tears : 
That, trust me, my Amethus — I could chide 
Mine own unmanly weakness — that made me 
A fellow-mourner with him. 

Amet. I believe thee. 

Men. He looked upon the trophies of his art, 
Tlien sighed, then wiped his eyes ; then sighed and 

"Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge 
This cruelty upon the author of it. 
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, 
Sliall nevermore betray a harmless peace 
To an untimely end :" — and in that sorrow, 
As he was iiashing it against a tree, 
I suddenly stept iu.' 

lUilliam Pnimmoni). 

Drummond (1.58.5-161!)), "the first Scotch poet who 
wrote well iu English" (according to Soutliey), was 
horn at n;iwtlioniclen, near Edinburgli. His father, Sir 
John Drunimoiul, held a situation about the person of 
James VI. (atternard James I. of England). The poet 
studied law, but relinquished it, as his delight was in 
literature. Dr-iyton aiul Ben Jonson were among his 
friends ; and lie says of the latter, " He dissuaded me 
from poetry for tliat she had beggared him when he 
might have been a rich lawyer, physician, or merchant." 
Drummond reproduced the conventional Italian sounet 
with success. He died, it is said, of grief at the execu- 
tion of Charles I. 

Of this fair volume which we World do name, 
If we tlie leaves and sheets could turn with care, — 
Of Him who it corrects and did it frame 
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare. 
Find out His power, which wildest powers doth 

His providence extending everywhere, 
His justice which jnond rebels doth not spare, 
In every 'page and period of the same. 

1 Crnshaw has versified this iiicident in bis "Music's Duel," 
which, like most iniitatioDs, is far iufcrior, iu simplicity aud 
point, to the original. 



But silly Avo, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleased -nith colored vellum, leaves of gold, 
Fair daugliiig ribauds, leaving what is best; 
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking bold ; 
Or, if by chance wo stay our minds on aught. 
It is some picture ou the margin wrought. 


A good that never satisfies the mind, 

A beauty fading like the April flowers, 

A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined, 

A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours, 

An honor that more fickle is than wind, 

A glory at opinion's frown that lowers, 

A treasury which bankrupt time devours, 

A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, 

A vain delight our equals to command, 

A style of greatness, in effect a dream, 

A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 

A servile lot decked with a pompous name, — 

Are the strange ends we toil for here below, 

Till wisest death makes us our errors know. 


This world a hunting is ; 

The prey, poor man ; the Nimrod fierce is Death ; 

His speedy greyhounds are, 

Lust, Sickness, Envy, Care, 

Strife that ne'er falls amiss. 

With all those ills which haunt us while we 

Now, if hy chance wo fly 
Of these the eager chase, 
Old Age with stealing pace 
Casts ou his nets, and there we, panting, die. 

(Pcorgc llUtljcr. 

Wither (1588-1667) was a nntive of Hampshire, mul a 
prolific writer in James's reign. In 1613 he was impris- 
oned in the Marshiilsea for having; written a satire called 
"Abuses Stript and Whipt." He was a Royalist uuder 
Charles I., but changed his politics, and, having sold his 
estate, raised a troop of horse for the Parliament. Taken 
prisoner by the Royalists in 1G43, he is said to have owed 
his life to Sir John Denham, wlio requested the king not 
to hang Witlier, because, while he lived, Denham woidd 
not be thought the worst poet in England. Wither has 
been highly praised by Campbell, Sir Egerton Brydges, 

Leigli Hunt, and Charles Lamb. He was styled by Philips 
(167.5) "a most profuse pourcr forth of English rhyme." 
A vein of honesty, or at least earnestness in present con- 
viction, seems to run through his inconsistencies. He 
died in misery and obscurity, at the age of seventy-nine. 


While in the Marehalsea, Wither composed his poem of " The 
Shepherd's Ilniuinj;,'' from the Fourth Eclogue of which the 
following extract is made. In it Ro^et (Wither) exhorts hi.s 
frieud Willy (William Bro^vue, author of "Britanuia's Pasto 
rnls") not to give up poetry. The scene is supposed to be in 
prison, where Browne visits him. 

Aud, though for her sake I'm crost, 
Though my best hopes I have lost ; 
Aud knew she would make my trouble 
Ten times more than ten times double ; 
I should love aud keep her too, 
Spite of all the world could do. 
For, though banished from my flocks, 
Aud, confined within these rocks, 
Here I waste away the light. 
And consume the sullen night, 
She doth for my comfort stay, 
And keeps many cares awaj'. 

She doth tell me where to borrow 
Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; 
Makes the desolatest place 
To her presence be a grace ; 
Aud the blackest discontents 
Bo her fairest ornaments. 
In my former days of bliss, 
Her divine skill taught me this. 
That from everything I saw, 
I could some invention draw. 
And raise pleasure to her height. 
Through the meanest object's sight; 
By the murmur of a spring, 
Or the least bough's rustling. 
By a daisy, whose leaves spread, 
Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree, 
She could more infuse iu me, 
Than all nature's beauties can 
In some other wiser man. 

By her help, I also now, 
Make this churlish place allow 
Some things that may sweeten gteduesa, 
In the very gall of sadness. 
The dull loueuess, the black shade. 
That these hanging vaults have made ; 



The strange music of the waves, 
Beating ou tliese hollow caves ; 
This black dcu which rocks emljoss, 
Overgrown with eldest moss ; 
The rude portals that give light, 
More to terror than delight ; 
This my chainher of neglect, 
Walled abont with disrespect ; 
From all these, and this dull air, 
A fit oliject for despair. 
She hath taught mo by her might 
To draw comfort and delight. 

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 
I will cherish thee for this : 
Poesie, thou sweet'st content 
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent, 
Tliongh they as a trifle leave thee, 
Whose dull thoughts caunot couceive thee ; 
Though thou be to them a scorn, 
That to naught but earth are boru, — 
Let my life no longer be 
Than I am in love with thee! 
Though our wise ones call it madness. 
Let me never taste of gladness. 
If I love not thy maddest tits 
Above all their greatest wits. 
And though some, too seeming holy. 
Do account thy raptures folly. 
Thou dost teach me to contemu 
What makes knaves and fools of them. 


Yet I confess in this my pilgrimage, 
I like some infant am, of teuder age. 
For as the child who from liis father hath 
Strayed in some grove thro' many a crooked path, — 
Is sometimes hopeful that he finds the way, 
And sometimes doubtful he runs more astray : 
Sometime with fair and easy paths doth meet, 
Sometime with rougher tracts that stay liis feet ; 
Here goes, there runs, and yon amazed stays, 
Tlieu cries, and straight forgets his care, and plays : 
Then, heariug where his loving father calls, 
Makes haste, but, thro' a zeal ill-guided, falls ; 
Or runs some other way, until that he 
(Whose love is more than his endeavors be) 
To seek the wanderer, forth himself doth come, 
And take him in his arms and bear him home: — 
So iu this life, this grove of ignorance. 
As to my homeward, I myself advance, 

Sometimes aright, and sometimes wrong I go, 
Sometimes my pace is siieedy, sometimes slow 
One while my ways are pleasaut utito mc, 
Another while as full of cares they be. 
I doubt and hope, and doubt and hope again, 
And many a change of passion I sustain. 
In this my journey, so that now and then 
I lost, perhaps, may seem to other men, — 
Yea, to myself, awhile, when sins impure 
Do my Redeemer's love from me obscure ! 
But whatsoe'er betide, I know full well 
My Father, who above the clouds doth dwell, 
Au eye upon his wandering cliild doth cast, 
Aud he will fetch me to my home at last. 


• « * * j^ » 

The voice which I did more esteem 

Tlian music iu her sweetest key, 
Those eyes which unto me did seem 

More comfortable than the day — 
Those now by me, as they have been, 
Shall never more bo heard or seen ; 
But what I once enjoyed iu them 
Shall seem hereafter as a dream. 

All earthly comforts vanish thus ; 

So little hold of them have we, 
Tliat we from them, or they from us, 

Maj' in a moment ravished be. 
Yet we are neither just nor wise, 
If present mercies we despise ; 
Or mind not how there may be made 
A thankful use of what we Lad. 


Pedants shall not tio my straius 
To onr antique poets' veins ; 
As if we in later days 
Know to love, but not to praise ; 
Being born as free as these, 
I will sing as I shall please, 
Vv'ho as well new paths may run. 
As the best before have done. 
I disdain to make my song 
For their pleasure short or long : 
If I please I'll end it here, 
If I list I'll sing this year. 


Aiul, tliougU uone regard of it, 

By myself I iileased can sit, 

And witli that couteutraeut cheer me, 

As if half tlic world did Iiear me. 


Shall I, wasting in despair, 

Die because a woman's fair ? 

Or make pale my cheek with care, 

'Cause another's rosy are ? 

Be she fairer than the day. 

Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she he not so to me, 
What care I how fair she be ! 

Should my foolish heart be pined 

'Cause I see a woman kind ? 

Or a well-disposed nature 

Join<Sd with a lovely feature ? 

Be she meeker, kinder, than 

Tnrtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me, 

What cai'e I how kind she be ! 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
lie to perish for her love ? 
Or, her merit's value known, 
Make mo quite forget my own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gaiu her name of iest, 
If she seem not such to me, 
What care I how good she be ! 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind, 
Where they want of riches find. 
Think what with them they would do 
Who, without them, dare to woo — 
And, unless that mind I sec, 
What care I how great she be ! 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair: 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve : 
If she slight mo when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go : 
For, if slie be not for me. 
What care I for whom she be ! 

(Eljomas (Harctu. 

Carew (1589-1639), of an ancient Gloucestei-shire fam- 
ily, was one of the courtier [loets who clustered round 
the tin-one of Cliarles I. He produced some li^ht but 
eminently beautiful poems, and was one of the first who 
save grace and polish to English lyrical verse. Late in 
life he became very devout, and deplored the licentious- 
ness of some of his poems. 


He that loves a cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As (dd Time makes these decay. 
So his flames must waste away. 

Bnt a smooth and steadfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts and cahn desires. 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kiudle never-dying fires. 

Where tliese are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

No tears, Celia, now shall win 
Jly resolved heart to return ; 

I have searched thy soul within. 

And find uanght but pride and scorn ; 

I have learned thy arts, and now 

Can disdain as much as thou. 

Some power, in my revenge, convey 

That love to her I cast away! 


So grieves the adventurous nicrcliant, when he 

All the long-toiled-for treasure his ship stows 
Into the angry main to save from Avrack 
Himself and men, as I grieve to give back 
These letters : yet so powerful is your sway. 
As, if you bid me die, I must obey. 
Go then, blest papers ! You shall kiss 

That gave you freedom, but hold me in bands ; 
Which with a touch did give you life; but I, 
Because I may not touch those hands, must die. 

Tell her, no length of time, no change of air, 
No cruelty, disdain, absence, despair, 



Xo, nor lier steadfast coustaucy, can deter 
Jly vassal heart from ever honoring her. 
Thongh these he iiowerful arguments to prove 
I love in vain, yet I must ever love. 
Say, if she frown when you that word rehearse, 
Service in iirose is oft called love in verso : 
Then pray her, since I send hack on my part 
Her papers, she will send me hack my lieart. 


Give me more love, or more disdain, 
The torrid or the frozen zone 

Brings equal ease nnto my jiain ; 
The temperate affords me none ; 

Either extreme, of love or liate. 

Is sweeter than a calm estate. 

Give mo a storm ; if it he love, 

Like Danae in that golden shower, 
I swim in iileasure ; if it prove 

Disdain, that torrent will devour 
My vulture-hopes ; and he's possessed 
Of heaven that's hut from hell released : 
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; 
Give me more love, or more disdain.' 


Ask me no more, where Jove bestows. 
When Juno is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your heauties' orient deep. 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more, whither do stray 
The goldeu atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your liair. 

Ask me no more, wliither doth hasto 
The nightingale, when May is jiast ; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more, where tliose stars light. 
That downward fall in dead of niglit ; 
Fov ■■■■ ^-nur eyes they sit, and there 
e, as in their siihere. 

1 Tne idea may be foniul iu an old French paying, qnoled by 
Lovelace: "Drune moi phis do pitie ini plus de creaiilte, car 
sans ce je ne [juis pas vivrc, no njorir." 

Ask me no more, if east or west. 
The phoenix huilds her spicy nest ; 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant hosom dies. 

lllilliam Broinnc. 

Born in Devonshire (1590-1645), Browue w.-ts educated 
at Oxford. He wrote " Britannia's Pastorals," " The 
Shepherd's Pipe," "The Inner Temple Masque," ami 
other poems. Those were popular iu his own day, but 
fell afterward into neglect. The best of them were writ- 
ten before he was twenty years of age, and he published 
none after thirty. "The Siren's Song" is one of the 
most precious felicities of genius. It is rare in literary 
history that so much promise is found so inexplicably 
stunted and silenced by time. George "Wither seems to 
have had a high estimate of Browne's gifts, and wrote : 

" Thou art youni^, yet snch a liiy 
Never graced the mouth of May, 
As (if they provoke thy skill) 
Thou canst tit unto tlie quill." 


Shall I tell you whom I love ? 

Hearken then awhile to me ; 
And if such a woman move 

As I now shall versifie. 
Be assured 'tis she, or none, 
That I love, and love aloue. 

Nature did her so much right. 
As she scorns the help of art ; 

In as many virtues dight 

As ne'er yet emhraced .a heart : 

So much good, so truly tried, — 

Some for less were deified. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To malce known how mucli she hath : 
And her anger flames no higher 

Thau may fitly sweeten wrath : 
Full of pity as may he, 
Thongh, perhaps, not so to me. 

Reason masters every, 

And her virtues grace her hirth ; 

Lovely as all excelleuce, 

Modest iu her most of mirth ; 

Likelihood enough to prove 

Only worth could kindle love. 


Such she is ; aud if you know 
Such a one as I have sung, 

Be she brown, or fair, or so, 

That she be but somewhile youug ; 

Be assured 'tis she, or none, 

Tliat I love, aud love alone. 


From "The Innee Temple JUsqce." 

Steer, hither steer your -n-ingdd pines. 

All beaten mariners ! 
Here lie Love's undiscovered mines, 

A prey to passengers, — 
Perfumes far sweeter than tlie best 
Wliich make the i>h(Enix' urn and nest. 

Fear uot your ships ; 

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips ; 
Pint come on shore. 
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 

Fur swelling waves, — our panting breasts, 

Wliere never storms arise, — 
Exchange, and be a while our guests ; 

For stars, gaze on our eyes ; 
The compass, Love shall hourly sing ; 
And, as he goes about the ring. 

We will not miss 

To tell each poiut he uameth with a kiss. 
Then come on shore, 
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 

Uobcrt Cjcrrick. 

Herrick (1591-1074) was the son of a goldsmith of Lon- 
ilou. He was educated for the Church, and obtained from 
Charles I. the living of Dean Prior, in Devonshire. From 
this he was ejected during the civil wars. His works con- 
sist chiefly of religious and Anacreontic poems in strange 
association ; and his i-ank among the lyric writers of his 
day is with the highest. He seems to have repented of 
tlie impure character of some of his verse, for he writes -. 

*' For those my unbaptizt'd rhymes, 
Writ in my wild unhallowed limes — 
For every sentence, clause, and word 
That's uot inlaid with thee, O Lord! 
For<j:ive me, God, and blot eacli line 
Out of my book that is uot thiue." 

Herrick's vein of poetry is of a high quality when he is 
at his best; but sometimes he sinks to mere doggerel. 
His verses to flowers, for whicli he seems to have had a 
genuine love, are masterpieces of tenderness and grace. 


Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early rising sun 
Has uot attained his noon. 
Stay, stay, 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you. 

We have as short a spring. 
As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you or anything : 
We die 
As your hours do, aud dry 

Like to the summei^'s rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dev\-, 
Ne'er to be found agaiu. 


'Tis not every day that I 
Fitted am to prophesy : 
No, but when the spirit fills 
The fantastic pannicles ; 
Full of fire, then I write 
As the Godhead doth indite. 
Thus enraged, my lines are hurled, 
Like the Sibyl's, through the world : 
Look how next the holy fire 
Either slakes or doth retire ; 
So tlie fancy cools, till when 
That brave spirit comes again. 


Ah, Ben ! 
Say, how or wlieu 
Shall we, thy guests, 
Meet at those lyric feasts 

Made at the Sun, 
The Dog, the Triple Tun ; 
Where we such clusters had 
As made us nobly wild, uot mcd, 
Aud yet each of tliiuc 
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine 1 


My Ben! 

Or come agaiu, 

Or send to ns 
Thy wit's great overplus ; 

But teach us yet 
Wisely to luisbaiul it, 
Lest we tLat talent spend ; 
And having once brought to an end 

Tliat iirccions stock, the store 
Of such a wit, the world should have no more. 


In the hour of my distress, 
When temptations me oppress. 
And when I my sins confess. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo ! 

When I lie within my bod, 
Sick in heart, and sick in head, 
And with doubts discomforted, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo '. 

When the house doth sigh and weep, 
And the world is drowned in sleep, 
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo ! 

When the artless doctor sees 
No one hojie but of his fees. 
And his skill runs on the lees. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 

Wlien his potion and his pill 
Has or none or little skill, 
Meet for nothing but to kill. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo! 

When the passiiig-bi il doth toll, 
And t!i'i Furies in a shoal 
Come to figlit 11 parting soul, 

Sweot Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the tapers nov. burn blue, 

And the comforters are few. 

And that number more than true. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

WI becom priest his last hath prayed, 

T i iljt«« to wliat is said, 
'Cause my spoec'i is now decayed. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo! 

When God knows I'm tossed about 
Either with despair or doubt, 
Yet, before the glass be out. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the Tempter mo pursu'th 
With the sins of all my youth. 
And half damns mo with untruth, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort ;iue ! 

When the flames and hellish cries 
Fright miue ears, and fright mine eyes, 
And all terrors mo surprise. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the judgment is revealed, 
And that opened which was sealed, — 
When to thee I have appealed. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. 
The shooting-stars attend thee ; 

And the elves, also. 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee ! 

No will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee. 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ! 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber; 

What though tlie moon does slumber ? 
T!ie stars of the night 
Will loud thee their light, 

Like tapers clear without number. 

Tlieu, Julia, let me woo thee 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet. 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 


Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past 



But you may stay yet here a while 
To blusli and gently smile, 
Ami go at last. 

What ! were ye bom to bo 
An hour or half's dfliglit, 
And so to bid good-night ? 

'Twas iiity Nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things liave 
Their end, though ne'er so brave : 

And after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, a while, they glide 
Into the grave. 



Get up, get up! for shame! the blooming morn 
Uiiou her wings presents the god unshorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-qnilted colors tluough the air! 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept, and bowed toward 

Above au hour since ; yet yon not drest — • 
Nay, not so much as ont of bed ? 
When all the birds have matins said, 
And sung tlieir thankful hynms, 'tis sin, 
Nay, profanation, to keep iu, 
When as a thousaud virgins on this day 
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 

Rise, and put on yonr foliage, and bo seen 
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and 
And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
For jewels for your gown or Iiair; 
Fear not, the leaves will strew 
Gems in abundance upon you ; 
Besides, the childhood of tlie day has kept 
Against you come some orient pearls unwept : 
Come, and receive them while the light 
Hangs ou the dew-locks of the night. 
And Titan on the eastern hill 
Retires himself, or else stands still 
Til! you come forth. Wasli, dress, be brief in pray- 
Few beads are best when once wO go a-Maving. 

Come, my Corinna, come, and coming, mark 
How each field turns .a street, each street a park, 
Made green, and trimmed with trees ; see liow 
Devotion gives eacli house a bough 
Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere tliis 
An ark, a tabernacle is, 
Made np of white thorn neatly interwove, 
As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
Can such delights be in the street 
And open fields, and we not see't ? 
Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey 
The proclamation made for May, 
Ami sin no more, as we have done, by staying; 
But, my Corinua, come, let's go a-Maying. 

There's not a biulding boy or girl this day 
But is got up and gone to bring in May. 
A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white thorn laden, home ; 
Some have despatched tlieir cakes and cream 
Before that we have left to dream ; 
And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted trotli, 
And chose their priest, ere wo can cast oft' sloth ; 
Many a green gown has been given ; 
Many a kiss, both odd and even ; 
Many a glance, too, has been sent 
From out the eye, love's firmament ; 
Many a jest told of the keys' betraying 
This night, and locks picked ; yet we're imt a-May- 

Come, let ns go, while wo are in our prime, 
And take the harndess folly of the time. 

We shall grow old apace, and die. 

Before we know our liberty. 

Our life is short, and our days run 

As fast away as does the sun ; 
And as a vapor, or a drop of rain, 
Once lost, can ne'er bo found again, 

So when or you or I are made 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade. 

All love, all" likinf,', all doliglit. 

Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
Tlien while time serves, and we are but decaying, 
Come, my Corinna, . i. :'■• :'•■ a-Mayiug. 


Sweet, be not preiul of those two eyes 
Which, starlike, sparkle in tlieir skies ; 
Nor be you prom' tlial yon can see 
All hearts your captives — yours yet free; 



I!c yuu not proud of tliat rich liair 
Wliicli waiitous with tlio lovesick air; 
Wlieu as that ruby wliicli you wear, 
Sunk froui the tip of your soft ear, 
Will last to be a precious stone 
When all your world of beauty's gone. 


When I a verse shall make, 
Know I have prayed thee, 

For old religion's sake, 
Saiut Ben, to aid uie. 

Make the way smooth for me. 
When I, tliy Herrick, 

Honoring thee ou my kuce, 
Oiler my lyric. 

Candles I'll give to thee. 

And a new altar ; 
And thou. Saint Ben, shalt be 

Writ in mv Psalter. 


Ask mo why I send you here 
This sweet Infanta of the year? 

Ask mo why I send to you 
This Primrose, thus bepearled with dew ? 

I will whisper to your cars, 
The sweets of love are mixed with tears. 

Ask me why this flower does show 
So yollow-green, and sickly too ? 

Ask me why the stalk is weak 
And bending, yet it doth not break ? 

I will answer, Tliese discover 
What fainting hopes are iu a lover. 

Jraiuis (Duarlcs. 

Quarles (1.5!13-1044), tbougli quaint and fantastic in las 
style, is the autlior of some genuine poetical utterances. 
He seems to have disobeyed the advice ho gave to oth- 
ers— "Clothe not tliy language either witli obscurity or 
affectation." He was extravagantly landed iu his day. 
Pldllips (107.5) calls him "the darling of our plebeian 
juilgmunts." Anotlier admirer styles lum "tliat sweet 
seraph of our nation, Quarles." Numerous editions of 
las "Emblems" have appeared even during this centu- 

ry. His poetry is strongly tinctured with religious feel- 
ing. Tins does not seem to liave saved bini from Puritan 
prosecution. Ho liad his heart brokeu by the destrue- 
tiou of his property, and especially of his rare library. 
He had, by the lirst of his two wives, eightceu children, 
and died, much troubled, in 1C44. Jolin Quarles, his sou, 
who died of the plague iu IKtlo, inherited much of his fa- 
ther's poetical ability. 


False world, thou liest : thou canst not lend 

The least delight ; 
Thy favors cannot gain a, friend, 

Tliey are so slight ; 
Thy morning pleasures make an end 

To please at night : 
Poor are the wants that thou snppliest, 
And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou viest 
With heaven. Fcuid earth, thou boast'st ; false 
world, thou liest. 

Thy baljbling tougue tells golden tales 

Of endless treasure ; 
Tliy bounty offers easy sales 

Of hasting jileasure ; 
Tlion ask'st tlie conscience what she ails. 

And s\vear"st to ease her: 
Tliere's none cau want where thou suppliest. 
There's none can give where thou deniest. 
Alas! fond world, thou boast'st; false world, thou 

What well-advised ear regards 

What cartli can say? 
Thy words .are gold, but thy rew.ards 

Are painted clay : 
Thy cunuiug can but pack the cards. 

Thou canst not play: 
Thy game at weakest still thou viest ; 
If seen, and then revied, deniest : 
Thou art not what thou seem'st ; false world, thou 

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint 

Of new-coined treasure ; 
A paradise that has no stint. 

No change, no measure ; 
.A painted cask, birt nothing in't, 

Nor wealth, uor pleasure. 
Vain cartel! that falsely thus compliest 
With man I Vain man ! that thou rcliest 
On earth ! Vain man, thou dot'st ; vain earth, thou 



What mean, dull souls ! iu this high measure 

To haberdash 
In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure 

Is dross and trash! 
The height of whose enchanting pleasure 

Is but a flash ! 
Are these the goods that thou supplicst 
Us mortals with ? Are these the high'st ? 
Can these briug cordial iieace ? False world, thou 
liest ! 


I love (and have some cause to love) the earth : 
She is my Maker's creature — therefore good ; 
She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
She is my tender nurse — she gives me food. 

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee? 

Or what's my mother or my nurse to me ? 

I love the air : her dainty sweets refresh 

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; 

Her shrill -mouthed quire sustain me with their 

And with their polyphonian notes delight me : 
But what's the air, or all the sweets that she 
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee ? 

I love the sea : she is my fellow-creature, 

My careful purveyor ; she provides me store ; 

She walls mo round ; she makes my diet greater ; 

She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : 
But, Lord of oceans, wheu compared with thee. 
What is the ocean or her wealth to me ? 

To heaven's high city I direct my journey, 
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; 
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky : 

But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee? 

Without thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me. 

Without thy iiresence earth gives no refection ; 

Without thy presence sea affords no treasure ; 

Without thy presence air's a rank infection ; 

Without th}' presence heaven itself no pleasure: 
If not jiossessed, if not enjoyed in thee. 
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me 1 

The highest honors that the world can Ijoast 
Are subjects far too low for my desire ; 
The briglitfst beams of glory are at most 
But dying sparkles of thy living fire ; 

The loudest flames that eartli can kindle be 
But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee. 

Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares ; 

Wisdom but folly ; joy disquiet, sadness ; 

Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; 

Pleasures but pains, and mirth but pleasing mad- 
ness : 
Without thee. Lord, things be not what they be, 
Nor have they being, when compared with thee. 

In having all things, and not thee, what have I ? 

Not having thee, what have my labors got? 

Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ? 

And having thee alone, what have I not ? 
I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be 
Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee. 

£)cnrji King. 

King, bishop of Cliichcstci- (1591-1C69), was the .Tuthor 
of poems, elegies, and sonnets. His raouody on his wife, 
wlio died before lier twenty-fifth year, is beautiful and 
tender, containing the germ of some famous passages by 
modern poets. 


Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint. 

Instead of dirges this eomiilaint ; 

And for sweet flowers to crown thj- hearse. 

Receive a strew of weeping verse 

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see 

Quite melted into tears for thee. 

Dear ! since thy untimely fate. 
My task has been to meditate 
On thee, on thee : thou art the book, 
The library, whereon I look. 
Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay, 
I languish out, not live, the day. 
Using no other exercise 
But what I practise with mine eyes, 
By which wet glasses I find out 
How lazily time creeps about 
To one that mourns ; this, only this, 
My exercise and business is : 
So I compute the weary hours 
With sighs dissolved into showers. 

Sleep on, my Love, iu thy cold bed. 
Never to bo disquieted ! 
My last good-night ! Thou wilt not wako 
Till I thy fate shall overtake ; 



Till age, or grief, or sickness must 

Marry my body to that dust 

It so much loves, and fill the room 

My heart keeps empty iu thy tomb. 

Stay for me there : I "will not fail 

To meet thee in that hollow vale. 

And think not much of my delay ; 

I am already on the way. 

And follow thee with all the speed 

Desire can make or sorrows breed. 

Each minute is a short degree, 

And every hour a step toward thee. 

At night when I betake to rest. 

Next morn I rise nearer my west 

Of life almost by eight hours' sail 

Than when sleej) breathed his drowsy gale. 

Thus from the sun my bottom steers, 

And my day's compass downward bears. 

Nor labor I to stem the tide 

Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 
Thou, like the vau, first took'st the field, 
And gotten hast the victory, 
In thus adventuring to die 
Before me, whose more years might crave 
A just precedence in the grave. 
But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, 
Beats my apjiroach, tells thee I come ; 
And slow howe'er my marches be, 
I shall at last sit down by thee. 

The thought of this bids me go on, 
Aud wait my dissolution 
With hope aud comfort. Dear (forgive 
The crime !), I am content to live 
Divided, with but half a heart. 
Till we shall meet aud never part. 


Like to the falliug of a star. 
Or as the flights of eagles are ; 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew : 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
Or bubbles which on water stood — 
Even such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called iu and paid to-night. 
The wind blows out ; the bubble dies ; 
The spriug entombed iu autumn lies ; 
The dew dries up ; the star is shot ; 
The flight is past — and man forgot ! 

Bartcn i;)olj)i)aij. 

A native of Oxford (1593-1661), Holyday became chap- 
lain to Charles I., and Archdeacon of Oxford. He trans- 
lated Juvenal, and wrote a " Survey of the World," a 
poem coutainuig a thousand distiehs, from which we cuU 
the following specimens, taken from Trench's collection. 
They will repay study. 


River is time in water ; as it came. 
Still so it flows, yet never is the same. 

I wake, and so new live : a night's iirotectiou 
Is a new wonder whiles a resurrection. 

The sun's up, yet myself and God most bright 
I can't see ; I'm too dark, aud he's too light. 

Clay, sand, and rock seem of a different birth ; 
So men : some stiff, some loose, some firm' — all 
earth ! 

By red, green, blue, which sometimes paiut the air. 
Guilt, pardon, heaven, the rainbow does declare. 

The world's a prison ; no man can get out : 

Lot the atheist storm then ; Heaven is round about. 

Tlie rose is but the flower of a brier; 
The good man has an Adam to his sire. 

The dying mole, some say, opeus his eyes : 
The rich, till 'tis too late, wiU not be wise. 

Pride cannot see itself by mid-day light ; 
The peacock's tail is farthest from his sight. 

The swallow's a swift arrow, that may show 
With what an instant swiftness life doth flow. 

The nightingale's a quire — no single note. 
Oh, various power of God in one small throat ! 

The silkworm's its own wonder : without loom 
It does provide itself a silken room. 

Herodotus is history's fresh youth ; 
Thucydides is judgment, age, aud truth. 

In sadness, Machiavel, thou didst not well 
To help the world to faster run to hell. 



Down, pickaxe ! to tlie tleptlis for gold let's go ; 
We'll umlerraiiie Peru. Isn't heaven below ? 

Wlio gripes too mncU casts all upon tlio ground; 
Too great a greatness greatness dotli confound. 

All things are wonder since the woi'ld began : 
The world's a riddle, and the meaning's man. 

Father of gifts, who to the dust didst give 
Life, sav to these niv meditations, Live ! 

3ainc5 SljirlcTi- 

Sliirlcy (159C-1CGC), born in London, was the last of the 
Elizabethan dramatists. Intlicatious of the true poet 
Hasli out in many passages of bis plays. But his narrow 
circumstances probably prevented him from giving bis 
genius fair scope. He wrote lor bread, and lived on into 
the reign of Charles IL The great tire of 1666 burnt 
him out of lionse and home ; and a little after, in one of 
the suburbs of London, his wife and lie died on the same 
day. Shirley took orders in the English Church, but left 
his living on being converted to the Church of Kome. 
"Gentle, modest, and full of sensibility," s-ays his biog 
rapher, "he seems to have conciliated the affection of all 
his associates." 


This fiimons little poem appears in Shiiley's ono-act drama 
nf "The Conlention of Aj.nx and Uiyj^se:'," and is supposed to 
be recited or snnj; by Calchas before Ihe dead body of Aj;ix. 
Oldys refers to it as " the line soni^ which old Bowmau used to 
sing to King Charles II., and which he has ofleu sinig to lue." 

Tlie glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armor against fate ; 
Death lays his ley litinds on kings. 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust bo equal made 
With the poor crooked seytlie and spado. 

Some men witli swords may reap tlio field, 
And plant fresh hinrels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at hist must yield ; 
They ttime but one another still. 
Early or late, 
Tliey stoop to fate. 
And must give up their munnnring breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow, 

Tlieu boast no more your mighty deeds : 

Upon Death's purple altar now. 
See where the victor-victim bleeds. 

Your heads must come 

To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 

(!3coi-!jc Herbert. 

Herbert (1.593-1033) was the brother of Lord Herbert 
of Cherbury, the deistic mystic. Disappointed in court 
advancement by the death of James I., George took holy 
orders, and earned the appellation of " Holy " by his ex- 
emplary discharge of his sacred office. His style, like 
that of so many of his brother poets, is founded on the 
maimer of his friend Donne. The volume of his poems, 
still often republished, is entitled "The Temple." He 
died at the early age of thirty-nine. 


My God! I heard this day 
That none doth build a stately habifatimi 
But he thiit means to dwell tlierein. 
What house more stately hath there be<ii. 
Or can be, than is Man, to whoso creation 
All things are in decay 1 

For Man is everything. 
And more : ho is a tree, yet bears no fruit ; 
A beast, yet is, or should be, more : 
Reason and speech we only bring. 
Piivrots may thank ns, if they are not mute, 
They go upon the score. 

Man is all symmetry. 
Full of proportions, one limb to aimlher, 
Aiul all to all the world besides : 
Each jiart m.ay call the farthest brother ; 
For head with foot hath private amity. 
And both witli moons and tides. 

Nothing has got so far 
But Man hath caught and kept it as his prey. 
Ilis eyes dismount the highest star; 
He is in little all the spliere ; 
Herbs gladly cure his flesh, because that they 
Find their acquaintance there. 

For ns the wiinls do blow, 
Tlie earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains 
llow : 



Notbiug we see but means our good, 
As our delight or as our treasure : 
The whole is either our cupboard of food, 
Or cabiuet of pleasure. 

The stars have us to bed ; 
Night draws the curtaiu which the sun withdraws; 
Music and light atteud our head ; 
xVlI things unto our llesh are kind 
In their descent aud being ; — to our mind, 
lu their ascent and cause. 

Each thing is full of duty: 
Waters, united, are our navigatiou ; 
Distinguished, our habitation ; 
Below, our drink ; above, our meat ; 
Both arc onr cleanliness. Hath one such beauty? 
Then how are all things ueat! 

More servants wait on Man 
Tlian he"ll take notice of; in every path 

He treads down that which doth befriend him 

When sickness makes him iialc and wan. 
O mighty Love ! Man is one world, aud hath 

Another to attend him. 

Since, then, my God, thou hast 
So brave a palace built, oh, dwell in it, 

That it may dwell with thee at last! 

Till then afford us so much wit, 
That, as the world serves us, we may servo thee, 

Aud both thj' servants be. 


Teach me, my God and King, 
In all things thee to see ; 

And what I do in anything, 
To do it as for thee : 

Not rudely, as a beast. 

To run into an action ; 
But still to make thee prepossessed. 

And give it his perfection. 

A man that looks on glass, 

On it may stay his eye ; 
Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass, 

Aud then the heaven espy. 

All may of thee partake ; 
Nothing can bo so mean 

Which with his tincture, for thy sake, 
Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant, with this clause. 

Makes drudgery divine : 
Who sweeps a room as for thy laws 

Makes that and the action fine. 

This is the famous stone ' 

That turneth all to gold ; 
For that which God doth touch and own 

Cannot for less be told. 


Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright ! 
The bridal of the earth and sky! 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, 
For thou must die. 

Sweet Eose ! whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
Thy root is ever iu its grave. 
And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring! full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie ! 
My music shows ye have your closes ; 
And all must die. 

Oidy a sweet and virtuous soul. 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

lUilliam Btrobc. 

This accomplished divine was born in Devonshire 
about 1.59S; died 1644. His scattered iroetictil pieces 
liave never been collected into a volume. He was in- 
stalled Canon of Christchurch in 163S. 


When whispering strains with creeping 'wind 
Distil soft passions through the heart ; 
Aud when at every touch we find 
Our pulses beat aud bear a part ; 

Wheu threads can make 

A heartstring ache, 




Cau scarce deny 

Our souls are mado of harmony. 

When unto heavenly joys Tve faiue 
Whate'er the soul attecteth most, 
Which only thus we cau explain 
By music of the heavenly host, 

Whose lays, we think, 

Make stars to wink ; 


Cau scarce deny 

Our souls consist of harmony. 

Oh, lull mc, lull rae, charming air ! 
My seuses rock with wonder sweet! 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 
Soft like a spirit's are thy feet ! 

Grief who needs fear 

TUat hath an ear ! 

Down let him lie. 

And slumbering die, 

And change his soul for harmony. 

:;^nonMmous ani) illtsrEllancous Joeing 
of tlje 15tlj anb 16tl) (Etnturtcs. 



A "chevanchee" (coriupted into Chevy Chase) is the French 
word for a mid over the enemy's border. It represented such 
attacks as were often made by the Scots against England. The 
famous battle of Otterbarn, in 138S, came of a "chevnuchee." 
The corrupted name was translated into the " Hunting of the 
Cheviot," a confusion easily made, since there are Cheviot Uills 
in Northumberland as well as in Otterbnru. lu the oldest ex- 
tant version of "Chevy Chase,"' the name means *'the Cheviot 
hnnting-gronnd." It is claimed that the old ballad of " The 
Hunting of the Cheviot" has priority over this, which is proba- 
bly not older than the time of James I. It is the version of 
which Addison said, "The old song of Chevy Chase is the fa- 
vorite ballad of the common people of England : and Ben Jon- 
eon used to say he had rather been the author of it than of all 
his works." 

God prosper long our noble king, 

Our lives and safeties all ! 
A woeful hunting once there did 

In Chevy Chase befall. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn 
Earl Piercy took his way : 

The child may rue that was uuborn 
The hunting of that day! 

The stont Earl of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make. 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer days to take, 

The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase 

To kill and bear away. 
These tidings to Earl Douglas came, 

In Scotland where he lay, 

Who sent Earl Piercy present word 

He would prevent the sport. 
Tbe English Earl, not fearing him, 

Did to the woods resort, 

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, 

All chosen men of might, 
Who kuew full well in time of need 

To aim their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran 

To chase the fallow-deer; 
On Monday they began to hunt, 

Wheu daylight did appear ; 

And long before high noon they had 

A hundred fat bucks slain. 
Then, having dined, the drivers went 

To rouse the deer again. 

The bowmen mustered on the hills. 

Well able to endure ; 
And all their rear with special care 

That day was guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the wood.s 

The nimble deer to take, 
And with their cries the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Earl Piercy to the quarry wont 

To view the tender deer ; 
Quoth he, " Earl Douglas promised once 

This day to meet me here ; 

" But if I thought he would not come, 

No longer would I stay." 
With that a bravo young gentleman 

Thus to the Earl did say : 



" Lo, youtler dotU Earl Douglas come, 

His men iu armor bright, 
Full twenty huiiclrecl Scottisli spears 

All marching iu our sight ; 

"All men of pleasant Tividale, 

Fast by the river Tvreetl." 
" Oh, cease your sports," Earl Picrcy said, 

"Aud take your bows with speed; 

"And now with rae, my countrymen. 

Your courage forth advance ; 
For there was never champion yet, 

In Scotland nor in France, 

"That ever did on horseback come. 

But, if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man, 

With him to break a spear." 

Earl Douglas, on a milk-white steed, 

Most like a baron bold, 
Rode foremost of his corapauy, 

Whose armor shone like gold. 

" Show me," said he, " whose men yon be 

That hunt so boldly here ; 
That without my consent do chase 

Aud kill my fallow-deer." 

The first man that did answer make 

Was noble Piercy, he, — 
Who said, " We list not to declare 

Nor show whose men we be ; 

" Yet will wo spend our dearest blood 

The chiefest harts to slay." 
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 

Aud thus in rage did say : 

" Ere thus I will outbravM be 

One of us two shall die ! 
I know thee well! an earl thou art, 

Lord Piercy! So am I. 

" Bat trust me, Piercy, pity it were. 

And great olicnce, to kill 
Any of these our harmless men. 

For they have done no ill. 

"Let thou and I the battle try, 

Aud set our men aside." 
"Accurst be he," Lord Piercy said, 

" By whom this is denied." 

Then stepped a gallant squire forth, — 
Witherington was his name, — 

Who said, " I would not have it told 
To Heury our king, for shame, 

"That e'er my captain fought on foot, 

Aud I stand looking on : 
You two be Earls," said Witheriugton, 

"Aud I a Squire alone. 

" I'll do the best that do I may, 
While I have power to staud ! 

While I have jjower to wield my sword, 
I'll tight with heart aud hand !" 

Our English archers bent their bows — 
Their hearts were good and true, — 

At the first flight of arrows sent 
Full fourscore Scots they slew. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn 

Douglas bade on the bent ; 
Two captains moved with mickle might— 

Their spears iu shivers went. 

They closed full fast on every side. 
No slackness there was found, 

But mauy a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 

O Christ ! it was great grief to see 
How each man chose his spear, 

Aud how the blood out of their breasts 
Did gush like water clear ! 

At last these two stout Earls did meet. 
Like captaius of great might ; 

Like lious moved, they laid ou load. 
They made a cruel fight. 

They fought until they both did sweat 
With swords of tempered steel. 

Till blood upon their cheeks, like rain. 
They trickling down did feel. 

" Oh, yield thee, Piercy !" Douglas said, 
"And in faith I will thee bring 

Where thou shall high advanced be 
By James, our Scottish kiug. 

" Thy ransom I will freely give. 

And this report of thee : 
Thou art the most courageous knight 

That ever I did see." 



"No, Douglas!" qnotli Lord Piercy then, 

" Thy proffer I do scorn ; 
I ■uiU not yield to any Scot 

Tli;it ever yet was born !'' 

With that tliere came an arrow keen 

Out of an English bow, 
AVhich struck Earl Douglas to the heart 

A deep and deadly blow ; 

Who never spake more words than these ; 

" Fight on, my merry men all ! 
For why ? my life is at an end ; 

Lord Piercy sees my fall." 

Then, leaving strife, Earl Piercy took 

The dead man by the hand. 
And said, "Earl Donglas ! for thy life 
• Would I had lost my land ! 

"O Christ! my very lieart doth bleed 

AVitli sorrow for thy sake ! 
For sure a more rcnown<5d knight 

Mischance did never take !" 

A knight amougst the Scots there was, 

Wlio saw Earl Donglas die, 
WIio straight in wrath did vow revenge 

Upon the Lord Piercy. 

Sir Hugh Montgomery he was called, 
Who, with a spear full bright. 

Well mounted on a gallant steed, 
Ran iiercely through the fight : 

He passed the English archers all 

Witliont a dread or fear, 
And through Earl Piercy's body then 

He thrust bis hateful spear. 

With such a vehement force and might 

His body he did gore, 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard and more. 

So thus did both those nobles die, 
Whose courage none could stain. 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble Earl was slain : 

He had a bow bent in his hand 

Made of a trusty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 

Unto the head drew he : 

Against Sir Hngh Montgomery, 

So right the sliaft he set. 
The gray goose-wing that was thereon 

In his heart-blood was wet. 

This fight did last from break of day 

Till setting of the sun. 
For wlieu tliey rung tlie evening bell 

Tlie battle scarce was done. 

With stout Earl Piercy there were slain 

Sir John of Ogerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliffe and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold baron ; 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
Both knights of good account. 

Good Sir Ralph Raby thero was slain. 
Whose iirowess did surmount. 

For Witheiington needs must I wail. 

As one in doleful dumps ; 
For when his legs were smitten off. 

He fought upon his stumps. 

And witli Earl Douglas thero were slain 

Sir Hugh Montgomery ; 
Sir Charles Carrel, that from the field 

One foot would never fly ; 

Sir Cliarles Murray of Ratcliffe too, — 

His sister's son was he, — 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, 

Yet saved he could not be. 

And the Lord Maxwell, in like case. 

Did witli Earl Douglas die ; 
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears 

Scarce fifty-five did lly. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen 

Went honie but fifty-throe ; 
The rest were slain in Clievy Chase, 

Under tlie greenwood tree. 

Next day did many widows come, 

Their husb.ands to bewail ; 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears. 

But all would not prevail. 

Tlu'ir bodies, bathed in purple blood. 

They bore with them away; 
They kissed them dead a thousand times 

When they were clad in claj'. 



Tills news was brought to Ediuburgb, 
Wbere ScotlaucVs king did reigu, 

That brave Earl Douglas suddeuly 
Was with au arrow slaiu. 

"Oh, heavy news!'' King James did say; 

" Scotland can witness be 
I have not any captain more 

Of such account as ho!" 

Like tidings to King Ileurj' came 

AVitbiu as short a space, 
That Pierey of Northumberland 

Was slaiu in Chevy Chase. 

"Now God bo with him!" said our king, 

"Sith 'twill no better be; 
I trust I have within my realui 

Five hundred good as he! 

" Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say 

But I will vengeance take. 
And be revenged on them all 

For brave Lord Piercy's sake." 

This vow full well the kiug performed 

After on Humble Down ; 
In one day fifty knights were slaiu, 

With lords of great renown ; 

And of the rest, of suuill account, 

Did many hundreds die : 
Thus ended the huuting in Chevy Chase 

Made liy the Earl Pierey. 

God save the King, and bless the land 

In plenty, joy, and peace ! 
And grant heuceforth that foul debate 

Twist noblemen may cease ! 



There has been much digpnte as to the historical grounds for 
lliis ballad, styled l)y Coleridge "the grand old ballad of Sir 
Patrick Spens." The weight of testimony is in favor of its re- 
ferring to the fate of an espcditiou which in 1'2S1 carried one 
Lady Margaret to Norway, as the bride of King Eric. Mr. 
Robert Chambers translates from Fordoun this account of the 
incident: "In I2S1, Margaret, daughter of Alexander III., was 
married to the King of Norway; leaving Scotland on the hist 
day of July, she was conveyed thither in noble style, in com- 
pany with many knights and nobles. In returning home, after 
the celebration of her nuptials, the Abbot of Daluieriuock, Ber- 
nard of ISIonte-Alto, and many other persons were drowned." 
But why, if the exiiedition sailed "the last day of July," should 

Sir Patrick object to "the time of the year?" Perhaps the 
best answer will be. We must not hold ballad-makers to too 
strict an account. Percy's version differs considerably from 
the following, which will be found to conform pretty closely to 
Walter Scott's edition, "made up fi-om two MS. copies, collated 
with several verses recited by a friend." The versions given 
by Scott, Jamieson, Buchan, Motherwell, Allinghani, and Rob- 
erts all seem to differ. 

The kiug sits in Dunfermline towu, 
Drinking the blude-red ■wine: ' 

"Oh where will I get a skeely skipper,' 
To sail this new ship o' luiue?" 

Then up and spake an elderit knight. 

Sat at the king's right knee : 
" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor ever sailed the sen." 

The king has written a l)ruid letter, 

And sealed it wi' his hand. 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking ou the strand. 

" To Norown.^', to Norowtiy, 

To Noroway o'er the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis thou maun bring her hame." 

The first line that Sir Patrick read, 

A lottd laugh laugh(id he ; 
The neist line that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blindit his e'e. 

"Oil wha is this has done this deed, 

Has tauld the king o' me. 
To send us out at this time o' the year 

To sail upon the sea? 

"Be 't wind or weet, be 't hail or sleet, 

Our ship maun sail the faem; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis we maun fetch her hame." 

They hoysed their sails on Moneiiday morn, 

Wi' a' the speed they may ; 
And they lia'o landed iu Noroway 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week. 

In Noroway but twae, 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say : 

' A skilful captain. 



"Ye Scottishmeu speuiT a' our king's gowd, 

Aud a' our queenis fee." 
" Ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud ! 

Fu' loud I hear ye lee ! 

" For I brouglit as raucli o' tbe uliite mouie 

As gaue' uiy ineu and me, 
xVnd a half-fou'' o' tbe gude red gowd, 

Out o'er the sea with uie. 

" Mali' ready, mat' ready, luy merry men a' ! 

Our gude ship sails tlie morn." 
" Now, ever alake ! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm. 

" I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi' the auld moou in her arm ; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we'll come to harm !" 

They hadua sailed a league, a league, 

A league, hut barely three, 
When the lift grew dark, aud the wiud blew 

Aud gurly grew the sea. 

Tlie ankers brak, and the top-masts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And tbe waves cam' o'er the broken sliip. 

Till a' her sides were torn. 

" Oh where will I get a gude sailor 

Will tak' the helm in hand. 
Till I gae >ip to the tall top-mast, 

To see if I can spy land ?" 

" Oh here am I, a sailor gude. 

To tak' tbe helm in hand. 
Till you gae up to the tall top-mast — 

But I fear you'll ne'er spy laud."' 

He hadna gaue a step, a step, 

A step but barely aue. 
When a bolt flew out o' the gude ship's side. 

And the saut sea it cam' in. 

"Gae fetch a web o' the silken elaith, 

Auither o' the twine, 
Aud wap them into our gude ship's side. 

And let na the sea come in." 

^ Served, sufficed. 

' The eiglilh of a peck. 

They fetched a web o' tbe silken claitb, 

Anither o' the twine. 
And they wapiied them into the gude ship's side. 

But aye the sea cam' in. 

Ob laith, laith were our Scots lords' sous 

To weet their milk-white hands ; 
But lang ere a' the play ■\\as o'er, 

They wat their gowden bands. 

Oh laith, laith «ere our Scots lords' sous 

To weet their cork-heeled shoon ; 
But lang ere a' the jday was jilayed. 

They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 

That floated ou tbe faem, 
And mony was the gude lord's son 

That never mair cam' bame. 

The ladyes wraug their fingers white, — 

The maidens tore their hair; 
A' for the sake of their true loves,- 

For them they'll see nae mair. 

Ob lang, lang may the ladies sit, 

Wi' their fans into their band, 
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 

Come sailing to tbe strand ! 

And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' the gowd kaims in their hair, 

A' waiting for their ain dear loves, — 
For them they'll see nae mair. 

Half o'er, half o'er to Aberdour, 

It's fifty fathom deep. 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Siccus, 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 


Ballad of 1566. 

Give place, you ladyes all, 

Unto my mistresso faire, 
For none of you, or great or small, 

Can with my love compare. 

If you would knowo her well, 
Y'ou shall her nowe beholdc, 


If any touge at all may tell 
Her beauties niaiiyfolde. 

She is not high lie lowe, 

But just the perfect height, 
Below my head, above my hart, 

And than a wand more straight. 

She is not full ue spare, 

But just as she shoUle bee. 
An armfull for a god, I swearc ; 

And more — she loveth mee. 

Her shape Lath noe defect. 

Or none that I can tinde, 
Such as intleede you might expect 

From so well formde a minde. 

Her skin not blacke, nc white, 

But of a lovelie hew, 
As if created for delight ; 

Yet she is niortall too. 

Her haire is not too darke, 

No, nor I weene too light ; 
It is what it shoMe be ; and marke — 

It pleaseth me outright. 

Her eies nor greene, nor gray, 

Xor like the heavens above ; 
And more of them what needes I say. 

But that they looke and love 1 

Her foote not short ne long. 

And what may more surprise. 
Though some, perchance, may thinke nie wrong, 

'Tis just the fitting size. 

Her bande, yea, then, her bande, 

With fingers large or fine, 
It is enough, you understand, 

I like it — and 'tis mine. 

In briefe, I am content 

To take her as she is. 
And holde that she by heaven was sent 

To make compleate my blissc. 

Then, ladles, all give place 

Unto my mistresse faire. 
For now you knowe so well her grace. 

You needes must all dispaire. 



The following is printed by Eoljeits as it nppe.irs iu the 
'* Te-i-table Miscellany," with the atlditiou of the secoud stan- 
za from I'ercy's versiou, which is undoubtedly genuiue, and is 
required if the gtideman is to answer his wife stanza for stan- 
za. The ballad must have beeu common to both countries at 
an early period, as Shakspeiu-e makes Othello quote a stanza 
of it. The simidicity is marked. 

In winter, when the rain rained cauld. 

And frost and suaw on ilka hill, 
And Boreas wi' his blasts sae bauld 

Was threatening a' our kye to kill ; 
Then Boll my wife, wha loves na strife. 

She said to me right hastily, 
" Get up, gudeman, save C'rumniie's life, 

And tak' your auld cloak about ye." 

" O Bell, why dost thou flyte and. scorn ? 

Thou ken'st my cloak is very thin ; 
It is so bare and over worn, 

A crick he thereon cauna rin. 
Then I'll uae laiiger borrow nor lend; 

For aues I'll new appareled be ; 
To-morrow I'll to town and spend, 

I'll ha'e a new cloak about me.' 

"Jly Crummie is .a usefu' cow. 

And she is come o' a gude kine; 
Aft hath she wet the bairuies' mou', 

And I am laith that she should tyne. 
Get up, gudeman, it is fti' time, 

The sun shines in the lift sae hie ; 
Sloth never made a gracious end, 

Gae tak' your atild cloak about ye." 

" My cloak was aues a gude grey cloak. 

When it was fitting for my wear; 
Btit now it's scantly worth a groat. 

For I ha'e worn't this thirty year. 
Let's spend the gear that we ha'e won. 

We little ken the day we'll dee ; 
Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn 

To ha'e a new cloak about me." 

" In days when gude King Robert rang. 
His trews they cost but half a crown : 

He said they were a groat owre dear, 
And ca'd the tailor thief and loun. 

He was the king, that wore a crown. 
And thon'rt a man o' laigh degree ; 



'Tis prule puts a' the country down, 
Sae tak' yonr anld cloak abont ye." 

"Every laud Las its aiu laugh, 

Ilk kind o' corn it has its liool ; 
I think the warld is a' run wrang. 

When ilka wife her man wad rule. 
Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 

As they are girded gallantly, 
While I sit hnrklin" in the ase ? 

I'll ha'e a now cloidc abont nic." 

"Gndenian, I wat 'tis thirty year 

Since we did ane anither ken ; 
And we ba'e liad atween us twa 

Of lads and bonny lasses ten : 
Now they are women grown an<l men ; 

I wish and pray weel may they be ! 
Ami if yon'd prove a good hnsbiind, 

E'en tak' your anld cloak about ye." 

Bell my wife she loves na strife, 

But she wad guide me, if she can ; 
And to maintain an life, 

I aft raauu yield, tho'. I'm gmleman. 
Nought's to be won at woman's band, 

Uidess ye gie her a' the plea : 
Then I'll leave off where I began. 

And tak' my anld cloak about me. 



This three or four slight v.^riatinns that appear 
in other versioup, is from Percy's "Keliqnes." There is a 
Scotch version of it: but it cliflers nuicti from the following, 
aud is far iufcrior. 


Lithe" and listen, gentlemen ; 

To sing a song I will begin : 
It is of a lord of fair Scotland, 

Which was the unthrifty heir of Liniic. 

His father was a right good lord. 
His mother a lady of liigh degree; 

But they, alas! were dead him fro, 
And be loved keeping companie. 

To spend tho day with merry cheer, 
To drink and revel every night, 


' Wait, stay. 

To card and dice from eve to mom, 
It was, I ween, his heart's delight. 

To ride, to run, to rant, to roar; 

To alway spend and never spare : 
I wot an' he were the king liimsel'. 

Of gold aud fee he mote be bare. 

So fares the unthrifty heir of Linne, 
Till all his gold is gone aud spent ; 

And he maun sell his lanns so broad — ■ 
His house, and lands, .and all his rent. 

His father a keen stewiird. 
And John o' Scales was callM he ; 

But John is become a gentleman, 

And Johu has got baith gold and fee. 

Says, "Welcome, welcome. Lord of Linne! 

Let nought disturb thy merry cheer ; 
If thou wilt sell thy lands so broad. 

Good store of gold I'll give thee here." 

" My gold is gone, my money is spent ; 

My laud now take it unto thee ; 
Give nie the gold, good John o' Scales, 

And tliine for aye my land shall be." 

Then John he did him to record draw, 
Aud .Jobn lie gave him a god's-penuie ;' 

But for every pound that John agreed. 
The land, I wis, was well worth three. 

He told liiin the gold upon the board; 

He was right glad tho land to win : 
"The land is mine, tho gold is thine. 

And now I'll be the Lord of Liune." 

Thus he hath sold his laiul so broad. 
Both hill and holt, and moor and fen ; 

All but a poor and lonesome lodge. 
That stood far oil' in a lonely glen. 

For so he to his father higbt: 

" My son, when I am gone," said he, 

"Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad. 
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free : 

"But swear to me now upon tho rood, 
Tliat lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend ; 

' Earueft-moucy. 



Tor wlicii all tlio -world dotli I'rowu on tliee, 
Thou there sbalt fiml a faitlifiil frieud." 

The Iicir of Liuue is full of gold : 

And, "C'omo with me, my friends," said he: 
"Let's drinic, and rant, and merry make, 

And he that spares ne'er mote he tliri'e.'" 

Tlicy ranted, drank, and merry made. 
Till all his gold it waxcSd thin ; 

And then his friends they slunk away, 
They left the unthrifty heir of Limie. 

Ho had never a penny left in his purse, 

Xever a penny left but three; 
And ono was brass, another was lead. 

And t'other it was wliitc monie. 

'■Now w(;ll-a-day !'■ said the heir of Linnc; 

"Now well-a-day, and woe is nie ! 
For when I was the Lord of Linne, 

I never wanted gold nor fee. 

"But many a trusty friend have I, 
And why should I feel dule or eare ? 

I'll borrow of tlioni all by turns. 
So need I not be ever bare." 

But one, I wis, was not at home, 
Another had paid his gold away; 

Another called him thriftli^ss loon, 

And sharply bade him wend his way. 

"Now wcll-a-day!" said the lieir of Linne, 
"Now well-a-day, and woe is me! 

For when I had my land so broad, 
Ou me they lived riglit nierrilie. 

" To beg my bread from door to door, 
I wis, it were a burning shame ; 

To rob and steal, it were a sin; 
To work my limbs I cannot frame. 

"Now I'll away to the lonesome lodge, 
For there my father bade mo wend ; 

When all tlie world should frown on me, 
I there should lind a trusty friend." 

Away then hied the heir of Linnc, 
O'er hill and holt, and moor and feu, 

1 Thrive. 

Until he came to the lonesome lodge. 
That stood so low in a lonely glen. 

He lookiJd up, ho look(^d down, 
In hoiie some comfort for to win ; 

But bare and lothely were the walls : 

" Here's sorry cheer !" quoth the heir of 

The little window, dim and dark. 
Was hung with ivy, brier, and yew ; 

No shimmering sun here ever shone. 
No halesonie breeze here ever blew. 

No chair, no table he mote spy, 

No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed ; 

Nought save a rope with a running noose. 
That dangling hung up o'er his head. 

And over it, in broad lettdrs. 

These words were written so plain to see : 
"Ah, graceless wretch! hast spent thy all. 

And brought thyself to pennric ? 

"All this my boding mind misgave; 

I therefore left this trusty friend: 
Now let it shield thy foul disgrace, 

And all thy shame .and sorrows end." 

Sorely shent' with this rebuke, 

Sorely shout was the heir of Linne ; 

His heart, I wis, was near to burst. 
With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. 

Never a word spak' the heir of Linne, 
Never a word he sjiak' but three : 

"This is a trusty friend indeed. 
And is right welcome unto me." 

Then round his neck the cord he drew, 

And sprang aloft with his bodie ; 
When lo ! the ceiling burst in twain. 

And to the ground came tumbling he. 

Astonied lay the heir of Linne, 

Nor knew if he were live or dead : 

At length he looked and saw a bill, 
And in it a key of gold so red. 

He took the bill, and looked it on ; 
Straight good comfort found he there ; 

' Shamed, mortifled. 


It told liim of a bole in the ■n-all 

lu wLicli tliere stood tbree chests ia-fere.' 

Two were full of the beateu gold, 
The third was full of white monie ; 

Aud over them, iu broad letters. 

These words were writteu so plaiu to see: — 

'• Once more, my sou, I set thee clear ; 

Amend thy life and follies past ; 
Tor but thou amend thee of thy life. 

That rope must be thy end at last." 

•And let it be," said the heir of Liuue ; 

"And let be, but if I amend: 
Tor here I will make mine avow, 

This rede' shall guide me to the end." 

Away then went tlio heir of Linue, 
Away ho went with merry cheer; 

I wis, he neither stint uor staid, 

Till John o' the Scales' house he cam' uear. 

And when lie cam' to John o' the Scales, 
Up at the speere' then looked he : 

There sat three lords at the board's end, 
Were drinking of the wine so free. 

Thcu lip bespak' the heir of Liuiie, 
To John o' the Scales then spak' he : 

■I pray thee now, good John o' the Sciiles, 
One forty pcuce to lend to me." 

"Away, away, thou thriftless loon! 

Away, away ! this may not be ; 
For a curse be on my head," he said, 

" If ever I lend thee one penuie !" 

Tlieii bespak' the heir of Linue. 

To .lohn o' the Scales' wife then spak' he : 
■■ Madam, some alms on me bestow, 

I pray, for sweet Sainto Charitle." 

"Away, away, tliou thriftless loon I 
I swear thou gettest no alius of me ; 

For if wo siild hang any losel here, 
The first we would begin with thee." 

Then tip bospak' a good fellow, 

Which sat at John o' the Scales his boai'd ; 

' Ti.gether. 
- .\rlvicc'. 

3 All apei-tiu'e in the \v,iU ; n f hot whitlow. 

Said, "Turn again, thou heir of Liunc ; 
Some time thou wast a right good lord: 

" Some time .1 good fellow thou hast been. 
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; 

Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence, 
And other forty, if need be. 

"And ever I pray tliee, John o' the Scales, 

To let him sit in thy compauie ; 
For well I wot tliou hadst his land, 

Aud a good bargaiu it was to thee." 

Then up bespak' him John o' the Scales, 
All wud' lie answered him again : 

" Now a curse be on my head," he said, 
"But I did lose by that bargain." 

"And here I proffer thee, heir of Linue, 
Before these lords so fair and free. 

Thou shalt have 't back again better cheap, 
By a luindred merks, than I had it of thee.'' 

" I draw you to record, lords," he said : 
With that he gave him a god's-pennie. 

"Now, by my fay," said the heir of Liuue, 
"And here, good John, is thy monie." 

And lie pulled forth the bags of gold, 
Aud laid them douu upon the board : 

All woe-begone was John o' the Scales, 
So sheut he could say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold. 
He told it forth witli luicklo din : 

"The gold is thine, the land is mine; 
And now I'm again the Lord of Linue!" 

Says, "Have thou here, thou good fellow ! 

Forty pence thou didst lend me ; 
Now I'm again the Loi'd of Linue, 

Aud forty pounds I will give theo." 

"Now well-a-day !'' qiioth Joan o' the Scales; 

"Now well-a-day, aud woe is my life! 
Yesterday I was Lady of Linue, 

Now I'm but Joan o' the Scales his wife." 

"Now faro theo well," said the heir of Liuue, 
"Farewell, good John o' the Scales," said he; 

" When next I want to sell my land. 

Good John o' the Scales, I'll come to thee.'' 
1 Furious. 





Tliis fiimoiis old balliul nppenrs in "Arnold's Chronicle," 
primed nbont 1502. On it Prior founded his versified story of 
"Henry and Enimn," much inferior to this in simplicity and 
I'.iice. We have adhered quite closely to the old spellincr, in- 
usmuch as it could hardly be dissevered from the style without 
in.iury to the latter. The "banislied man" and the "nut-brown 
maid" are well contrasted. 

Be it light or -nroiig', tliesc men among 

Oil women do complaiiie ; 
Affirinyng this, how thiat it is 

A hihoiir spent in vaiiio 
To love them wele, for never a dele 

They love a iiiftu agayne ; 
For lete a man tlo what lie can 

Their favour to attayno, 
Yet, yf a newe do them iiursue, 

Their first trew lover than 
LalioiiretU for nonglit ; for from her thought 

He is a hanysslied man. 

I say not nay, but tlitit all day 

It is both writ and sayde 
That woman's fayth i.s, as who sayth, 

All utterly decayed ; 
But, nevertheless, riglit good witiids 

In this case might be layd : 
That they love trew, and contynew, 

Eccord the Nut-browno Maide, 
Whiehe from her love, whan her to prove 

Ho cam to make his moue, 
Wolde not departe ; for in lier liarte 

She lovyd but bym allone. 

Then bctweeue us lete ns discusso 

What was all the mauer 
Betwene them too ; we wyl also 

Tell all the peyne and fere 
That she was in. Nowe I bogyune. 

So that }-e mo answ^re ; 
Wherefore, all ye that present bo, 

I pray you, geve an care. 
I am the knyght ; I cum bo nyght, 

As secret as I can, 
Saying, "Alas ! thus stondytli the case — 

I am a banysshed man." 

And I your wylle for to fulfylle 
In this wyl not refuse ; 

Trusting to shewe, iu wordis fewe, 

That men liave au llle use 
(To (heir owno shame) -wymen to blame, 

And canseles them accuse : 
Therefore to you I answere now, 

Alle ■wymeu to excuse, — 
Mine owne Lerte dere, with yon what chiere? 

I pray you, tell auoon ; 
For, lu my myude, of all niankynde 

I love but you allon. 

It stoudeth so : a deed is do 

Whereof moche liarme shal growe ; 
My desteny is for to dye 

A shamful detho, I troxve, 
Or ellis to flee : the one must be : — 

None other wey I kuowe 
Bnt to withdrawe as au outlaw, 

And take me to mj' bowe. 
Wherefore, adieu, my own hert trewe 

None other red I can ; 
For I muste to the grene wodo go, 

Alone, a banysshed niau. 

Lorde, what is this worldis blisse, 
That chaungeth as the mone f 

My somer's day iu lusty May 
Is derked before the none. 

1 here you say farewel : Nay, nay, 
We departe not so soue. 

Why say ye so ? wheder wyll ye go f 
Alas ! what have ye done ? 

Alle my welfare to sorrow and care 
Shulde chaunge, yf ye were gon ; 

For, iu my mynde, of all maukynde 
I love but you alone. 

I can beleve it slial you greve, 

Aud somewhat you di.strayne; 
But aftyrwardo j'our payncs harde 

Within a day or twcj-no 
Shall sonc aslakc, and ye shal take 

Comfort to you agayne. 
Why sliuld ye nought? for, to make thought, 

Your labour were in vayiie. 
And thus I do, aud pray you too. 

As hertely as I can ; 
For I must to the greene wode go, 

Alone, a banysshed mau. 



Now, sytli that ye have shewed to mo 

The secret of jour niyiiile, 
I shall he playiie to yon agayue, 

Lykc as ye shal nie fymle. 
Syth it is so, that ye wyll go, 

I wole not leve hehynde ; 
Shal never he sayd the Nut-hrowue Mayil 

Was to her love nukiucl : 
Make you redy, for so ana I, 

Although it were anoon ; 
For, iu my inynde, of all niaukymle 

I love hut you alone. 

Yet I you rede to take good hede, 

What men wyl think and say : 
Of youge and olde it shal he told 

That ye ho gone away, 
Your wanton wylle for to fnlfylle. 

In greene woode you to play ; 
And that yo myght from your delyte 

No lenger make delay. 
Eathor than yo sliuld thus for me 

Be called an ill woman, 
Y'et wolde I to the greeue woode go, 

Alone, a hanysshed man. 

Though it he sunge of old and yonge 

That I shuld he to hlarae, 
Theirs be the charge that speke so large 

In hurting of my name ; 
For I wyl prove that feythful love 

It is devoyd of shame ; 
In your distresse and heaviiiesso 

To parte wyth you, the same : 
And sure all tho' that do not so, 

Trewo lovers ar they none ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankyndo 

I love hut you alone. 

I counsel you, rcmcmhre how 
It is no mayden's lawe 

Nothing to doubt, hut to renne out 
To wood witli an outhiwe ; 

For yo must there in your hande here 
A bowe, to here and drawe ; 

And, as a tlicef, thus must yon lyeve, 
Ever in drede and awe; 

Whereby to you gret harme meghte grow : 

Yet had I lever than 
That I had to the greene woode go. 

Alone, a hanysshed man. 

I thinke not nay, hut as j-o saye. 

It is no mayden's lore ; 
But love may make me for your sake. 

As ye have said before, 
To com on fote, to hunte, and sholc. 

To gete us mete and store ; 
For so that I your company 

May have, I aske no more : 
From which to parte it makith my herte 

As colde as ony ston ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

For an outhiwe this is the lawe, 

Tliat men hym take and liindc. 
Without pitee haug(5d to bee, 

And waver with tlie wyude. 
If I had neede (as God forbcdel). 

What rescue coude ye linde ? 
For sothe, I trow, ye and your bowe 

Shuld drawe for feie behyndo ; 
And no merveyle, for lytel avayle 

Were in your conncel thau : 
Wherefore I to the woode will go, 

Alone, a hanysshed man. 

Ful wel kuowe ye that wymcn bee 

But febyl for to fyght ; 
No womanhed is it, indeede. 

To bee bolde as a knight : 
Yet, iu such fere yf that ye wore 

Among euemys day and nyglit, 
I wolde wythstonde with bowe in liande, 

To greevethem as I myght, 
And you to save — .as wymcn have 

From deth men many one : 
For, in my mynde, of all mankyndo 

I love but you alone. 

Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede 

Tliat ye coude not susteiu 
The thoruey wayes, the deep valleys, 

The snowo, tho frost, tho reyn, 


The coUle, the hetc : for, drye or wete, 

We must lodge ou the iiliiyn ; 
And lis aboove none other roof 

But a brake biissh or twiiyne; 
Whiche sone slmld greve you, I beleve, 

Aud yo wnlde gladly than 
That I had to the greene \voode go, 

Alone, a banysshed man. 

Syth I have here been partynero 

With you of joy and blysse, 
I must als6 iiarto of your woe 

Endure, as reason is : 
Yet am I sure of one pleasure ; 

And, sbortlj', it is tliis; 
That where ye bee, me semeth, perde,' 

I colde not fare aniysse. 
Wythout more speche, I you besecho 

That we were soon agone ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

Yf ye go thyder, ye must consider, 

Whan ye have Inst to dine, 
Ther shel no mete be fore to gete, 

Nor drinke, bere, ale, nor wine. 
No slietis clene to lye betwenc, 

Made of thred and twyne ; 
None other house but levys and bowes 

To kever your bed and myn : 
So, myne herte swete, this evil diete 

Shuld make you pale and wan ; 
Wherefore I will to the greene woode go. 

Alone, a banysshed man. 

Amouge the wylde derc, such an archcrc 

As men say that yo bee 
Ne may not fayle of good vitayle. 

Where is so grete pleute. 
And watir cleere of the ryv&e 

Shal be fill swete to me ; 
Wyth whiche in hele'' I shal right welo 

Eudure, as ye shall see ; 
And, or we go, a bed or too 

I can provide auone ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

^ Par diet!. 

Lo, yet before ye must do more, 

Yf yo wyl go with me : 
As cutte your here up by your ere,' 

Your kirtle by the knee ; 
Wyth bowe in hande, for to withstoude 

Your eumys, yf nede be ; 
And this same nyght, before daylight, 

To woodward wyl I flee. 
And yf ye wyl all this fnlfyllc. 

Do it shortly as ye cau ; 
Ellis wyl I to the greene woode go 

Alone, a banysshed man. 


I shal as uow do more for you 

Thair 'lougeth to womanhede ; 
To short my here, a bowe to bere. 

To shote in tyme of nede. 
O my swete moder! before all other 

For you have I most drede ! 
But uow adiew! I must ensue 

Wher fortune doth me lede. 
All this make ye: Now lete us flee; 

The day cums fast upon ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

Nay, nay, not so ; ye shal not go, 

And I shal telle you whyc, — 
Your appetyte is to be lyght 

Of love, I welo aspie. 
For like as ye have sayd to nie. 

In lyke wyse hardely 
Yo wolde ans\v<!re whosoever it were, 

In way of company. 
It is sayde of olde, Sone bote, soue colde ; 

And so is a woman. 
Wherefore I to the wode wyl go, 

Aloue, a banysshed man. 

Yf yo take hede, it is no nede 

Snche wordis to say be mee ; 
For oft yo preyd, and long assayed. 

Or I you lovid, perd6 : 
And thongli that I of auncestry 

A baron's doiigliter be, 

' As cui yo'jr liuir up liy 3"n;n' ear. 



Yet Lave you proved liow I you loved, 

A squyer of lowe degree — 
And ever sUal, whatso Ijefalle ; 

To dey' therefore auoue ; 
For, in my myude, of all maukyude 

I love but you alone. 

A baron's cliilde to be begyled ! 

It were a cussed dede ! 
To be felow with an outlawe! 

Aliuyghty God forbede ! 
Yon bettyr were the jiouer squydr 

Aloue to forest ycdc,' 
Than ye shnldo saye another day 

That be my ■wykiJd dede 
Ye were betrayed : Wherefore, good maide. 

The best rede that I can 
Is that I to the greene woodo go, 

Alone, a banysshed man. 

Wliafsoever befalle, I never shal 

Of this thing you upbraid; 
But yf ye go, and leve me so, 

Tlian have ye me betraied. 
Renienibre you wele how that ye dele ; 

For yf ye, as ye sayde. 
Be so uukyude, to levc behyndo 

Your love, the Nut-brown Maide, 
Trust me truly that I shall dey 

Sono after ye bo goue ; 
For, in my mynde, of all maukynde 

I love but you aloue. 

Yf that ye went ye shnldo repente. 

For in the forest now 
I have purveid me of a maide 

Whom I love more than you ; 
Another fayrdr than ever ye were, 

I dare it wel avowe ; 
And of you bothe eche shnlde be wrothe 

With other, as I trowe. 
It were niyu ease to lyve in pease; 

So wyll I, yf I can ; 
Wherefore I to the woode wyl go. 

Alone, a banysshed man. 

1 To die. 

» Went. 

Though in the wode I uuderstode 

Ye had a iiaramour, 
All this may nought remove my thought 

But that I will be your : 
And she shall fynd me softc and kynde, 

And courteis every our ; 
Glad to fulfylle all that she wylle 

Commaunde me to my power : 
For had ye, lo, au hundred mo. 

Yet wolde I bo that ouc ; 
For, iu my myude, of all maukynde 

I love but you aloue. 

Mine ounne dear love, I see the prove 

That ye be kynde and trcue ; 
Of mayde and wyf iu all my lyf 

The best that ever I knewe. 
Be mery and glad, be no more sad, 

The case is chauug^d newe ; 
For it were rutho that for your truthe 

You shnlde have cause to rewe. 
Be not dismayed whatsoever I sayd 

To you whau I began ; 
I will not to the greene woode go, 

I am uo banysshed man. 

Theis tidingis be more glad to me 

Thau to bo made a queen, 
Yf I were sure they shuld endure ; 

But it is often seen, 
Wlien men wil broke promyse, they speke 

The wordis on the spleue.' 
Yo shape some wyle me to begyle, 

And stele fro me, I wene : 
Then were the case wurs than it was, 

Aud I more wo-begone ; 
For, iu my niyude, of all maukynde 

I love but vou aloue. 

Ye shal not nede further to drede ; 

I wyl not disparage 
You (God defeude !), sith you desceude 

Of so grct a lineage. 
Non understonde : to Westmerlande, 

Which is mine herytage, 

' Ou a suddeu. 

AxoyTiiors and miscellaneous poems. 

I wyl you biiiige ; and wj tU a ryiig, 

Be wey of marjiige, 
I wyl you take, and lady make, 

As shortly as I can : 
Tliiis liave ye wone an eric's son, 

And not a bauyssbed man. 

Here may ye see that wynien be 

In love, meke, kiude, and stable ; 
Let never man repreve them tbau, 

Or calle tbem variable; 
Bnt rather prey God that we may 

To them be comfortable ; 
Which somtyme provycth suche as he loveth, 

Yf tliey be cliaritable. 
For sitli men wohle that wymeu sholdo 

Be meke to tlicm eche one ; 
Much more ought they to God obey, 

And serve but Hvm alone. 



This favorite old ballad, often attribated to Burus because of 
hi? alteration of some of the lines, is an auouynioiis production, 
aud believed to be auterior lo 164G. 

There came three men out of the West, 

Their victory to try ; 
And they have taken a solemn oath 

Poor Barleycorn should die. 
Tliey took a plough and ploughed him in, 

Aud harrowed clods on his head ; 
And then they took a solemn oath 

Poor Barleycorn was dead. 
There he lay sleeping in the ground 

Till rain from the sky did fall ; 
Then Barleycorn sprung up his head, 

And so amazed them all. 

There he remained till midsummer, 

Aud looked both pale and wan ; 
Then Barleycorn ho got a beard, 

Aud so became a man. 
Then they sent men with scythes so sharp,' 

To cut him off at knee ; 
And then poor little Barleycorn 

They served him barbarously : 
Then they sent men with pitchforks strong, 

To pierce him through the heart ; 
And, like a dreadful tragedy. 

They bound him to a cart. 

And then they brought him to a barn, 

A prisoner, to endure ; 
And so they fetched Iiim out again. 

And laid him on tlio floor: 
Then they set meu with holly clubs 

To beat the flesh from his bones ; 
But the miller ho served him worse than that. 

For he ground him betwixt two stones. 
Oh, Barlejcorn is the choicest grain^ 

That ever was sown on land ! 
It will do more than any grain 

By the turning of your hand. 

It will make a boy into a man. 

And a man into an ass ; 
It will change your gold into silver. 

And your silver into brass : 
It will make the huntsman hunt the fox 

That never wound his horn ; 
It will bring the tinker to the stocks. 

That people may him scorn : 
It will put sack into a glass, 

And claret in the can ; 
And it will cause a man to drink 

Till he neither can go nor stan'. 



The following is from a black-letter copy, reprinted in Ev- 
ans's "Old Ballads," Loudon, 1777. 


Over the mountains. 

And under the waves ; 
Over the fountains. 

And under the graves ; 
Under floods which are deepest, 

Which do Neptune obey ; 
Over rocks which are steeliest, 

Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 

For the glowworm to lie ; 
Where there is no place 

For the receipt of a fly ; 
Where the gnat dares not venture, 

Lest herself fast she lay ; 
Bnt if Love come, he will enter, 

Aud tind out the way. 

Y'on may esteem him 
A child of his force. 



Or you may deem him 

A coward, wbich is worse ; 

But if he whom Love dotli houor 
He concealed from the day, 

Set a thousand guards upon him, 
Love will tind out the way. 

Some thiuk to lose him, 

Which is too unkind ; 
And some do suppose him. 

Poor heart, to be blind : 
But if he were hidden, 

Do the best you may, 
Blind Love (if yon so call him) 

Will find out the way. 

Well may the eagle 

Stoop down to the list. 
Or you may iuveiglo 

The Phonnix of the East : 
With fear the tiger's moved 

To give over liis prey. 
But never stop a lover — 

He will find out the way. 

From Dover to Berwick, 

And nations thereabout. 
Brave Guy, Earl of Warwick, 

That chauipiou so stout. 
With his Avarlike behavior 

Through the world he did stray, 
To win his Phillis' favor : 

Love will iiinl out the way. 

In order next enters 

Bevis so brave. 
After adventures 

And policy brave, 
To see whom ho desired. 

His Josian so gay, 
For whom his heart was fired : 

Love will find out the way. 

SECOND r.\i!T. 

The Gordlan kuot 

Which true-lovers knit. 
Undo it you cannot, 

Nor yet break it : 
JIako use of your inventions 

Their fancies to betray, 
To frustrate their intentions ; 

Love will find out the way. 

From court to the cottage. 

In bower and in hall, 
From the king unto the beggar. 

Love conquers all. 
Though ne'er so stout and lordly, 

Strive or do what you may ; 
Yet, be you ne'ei' so hardy, 

Love will find out the waj'. 

Love hath power over jirinces 

And greatest emperors; 
In any provinces 

.Such is Love's power. 
There is no resisting 

But him to obey ; 
In spite of .all contesting. 

Love will find out the way. 

If that he were hidden, 

And all men that are 
Were strictly forbidden 

That place to declare ; 
Winds, that have no abidings. 

Pitying their delay. 
Would C(uue and bring him tidings, 

And direct him the way. 

If the earth should part him. 

He would gallop it o'er; 
If the seas should o'erthwart him. 

Ho would swim to the shore. 
Should his love become a swallow, 

Through the air to stray, 
Love will lend wings to follow, 

And will find out the way. 

There is no striving 

To cross his intent, 
There is no coutriviug 

His plots to prevent ; 
But if ouco the message greet him 

That Ins true love doth stay. 
If death should come and meet him, 

Love will linil out the way. 



This bnlind was popular hi Eii^laiul before 1G56. There .are 
several versious of it. Jiiniiesnii i;ives one takeu down from 
the recitation of a Mrs. Brown, " who had it from an old wom- 
an;" but he interpolates it with several stanzas of his own. 
There nre uumerous jiurodies of the piece. Both Scott and 

AXoxyMOis Axn miscellaxeucs poems. 


Janiiesoii adopted the "Biiinoiie " burden without saying dis- 
tinctly where it came from. We have selected tlie version in 
Allingham'8 collection as the best and probably the most au- 
thentic. Opinions difler as to tlie pri>nunciation of Dinnorie. 
Lockhart and Aytoun say the accent should be on the lirst syl- 
lable ; other and equally good authorities say Dinno'rle. 

Tlipro were twa sistera sat in a liow'r: 

(ISiiiiioiie, O Biiiiiorie I) 
A kniglit cam' there, a noble ■wooer, 

By tlio bouiiy mill-clam.s o' Biiiuoric. 

He courted tlie eldest wi' glove and riug, 

(Biuiiorie, O Binnorie!) 
But lie lo'ed tlie youngest aboou a' tbing, 

By tbe bouny niill-dains o' Biuuorie. 

The eldest she Tvas vex6d sail', 

(Biunorie, O Binnorie!) 
And sair envied her sister fair, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

Upon a morning i'uir .and clear 

(Biuuorie, O Binnorie!) 
She cried upon her sister dear. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

" sister, sister, talc' my hand," 

(Biuuorie, O Binnorie!) 
"Aud let's go down to the river-strand, 

By the bunny mill-dams o' Binnorie." 

She's ta'eii her by the lily hand, 

(Biuuorie, O Binnorie!) 
Aud down they went to the river-strand, 

Bj' the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

The j'ouugest stood upon a stane, 

(Binuorie, O Biunorie !) 
The eldest cam' and pushed her in,' 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

"O sister, sister, reach your hand!" 

(Binnorie, O Biuuorie !) 
"And ye sail be heir o' half luy land" — 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

" O sister, reaeli me but your glove !" 

(Biunorie, O Biuuorie!) 
"And sweet William sail be your love" — 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biuuorie. 

Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, 

(Biuuorie, O Biuuorie!) 
Till she cam' to the mouth o' you mill-dam, 

By the bouny mill-dams o' Binuorie. 

Out then cam' the miller's sou 

(Binuorie, O Biuuorie!) 
And saw the fair maid sounmiiu' in. 

By the bonny mill-datus o' Binuorie. 

"O father, father, draw your dam I" 

(Biunoi'ie, O Biuuorie!) 
"There's either a mermaid or a swan," 

By the bouny mill-dams o' Biunori,e. 


The miller quiehly drew the dam, 

(Biunorie, O Binnorie!) 
And there he found a drowned woman, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

Round about her middle sma' 

(Binuorie, O Binuorie!) 
There went a gowdeu girdle bra'. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

All amaiig her yellow hair 

(Biunorie, O Binnorie!) 
A string o' jiearls was twisted rare. 

By the bouny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

On her fingers, lily-white, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
The jewel-rings were shining bright. 

By the bouny miU-dauis o' Binnorie. 

And by there cam' a harper fine, 

(Biuuorie, O Binnorie!) 
Harpdd to nobles when they dine. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

Aud when he looked that lady on, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
He sighed and made a heavy moan. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

He's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair, 

(Binuorie, O Biuu(uic!) 
Aud wi' them strung his harp sae rare, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

He went into her father's hall, 

(Binuorie, O Biuuorie!) 
And played his harp before them all, 

By the bouny niill-daius o' Biunorie. 

Aud sune tlie harp sang loud and clear, 

(Binnorii", O Binnorie!) 
" Fareweel, my father aud mither dear!" 

By the bouny mill-dams o' Biuuorie. 


And ueist wheu the harp began to sing, 

(Binnorie, O Binuoriel) 
"Twas "Farewcel, sweetheart!" said the string, 

Bj' the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

And then, as plain as plain could be, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
"There sits mj' sister who drowned me!" 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 



or tliis there are various versions. We have ctiosen 
tliat collated by Mr. Alliugliani. It is supposed to be founded 
OH fact, but there is liltle except loose tradition by which to 
verily it. The river Yarrow, much famed iu song, runs through 
a wide vale in Selkirkshire, between lofty green hills, and joins 
the Tweed above the t(pwu of Selkirk. The "Teunies" is a 
farm below tlie Yarrow Kirk. 

Lato at e'en, drinking the ■wine. 
And ere they paid the lawing,' 

They set a combat them between, 
To fijiht it iu the dawing. 

"What thongh ye be my sister's lord? 

We'll cross onr swords to-morrow." 
" What though my wife yonr sister be ? 

I'll meet ye then on Yarrow." 

"Oh, stay at hame, my aiu gude lord! 

Oh, stay, ray aiu dear marrow !- 
5Iy cruel brother will you betray 

On the dowie^ banks o' Yarrow." 

"Oh, fare ye weel, my lady dear! 

xVnd put aside your .sorrow ; 
For if I gae, I'll snue return 

Frae the bouuy banks o' Yarrow." 

She kissed his cheek, she kainied his hair, 

As oft she'd done before, O ; 
She belted him wi' his gude brand. 

And he's awa' to Yarrow. 

When ho gaed np the Teunies bank, 

As he gaed many a morrow. 
Nine armi5d men lay iu a den. 

On the dowie braes o' Yarrow. 

' Heckoniuf];. 

5 Married; husband or wife. 

8 Doleful. 

" Oh, como ye here to bnut or hawk 

The bonny Forest thorough ? 
Or come ye here to wield your brand 

Upon the banks o' Yarrow ?" 

"I come not here to hunt or hawk, 

As oft I've duue before, O ; 
But I come here to wield my brand 

Upon the bauks o' Yarrow." 

"If ye attack me nine to ane. 
That God may send ye sorrow ! — 

Yet will I fight while stand I may, 
On the bonny banks o' Yarrow." 

Two has lie hurt, and three has slaiu. 
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow ; 

But the stubborn knight crept in behind. 
And pierced his body thorough. 

"Gae hame, gae haine, you brither John, 
And tell your sister sorrow, — 

To come and lift her leafu' lord 
On the dowie bauks o' Yarrow." 

Her brither John gaed o'er yon hill. 

As oft he'd done before, O ; 
There ho met his sister dear. 

Cam' rinuiu' fast to Yarrow. 

"I dreamt a dream last night," she says; 

" I wish it binna sorrow ; 
I dreamt I pu'd the heather green 

Wi' my true love on Yarrow." 

" I'll read your dream, sister," he says ; 

"I'll read it into sorrow: 
Ye're bidden go take up your love ; 

He's sleeping sound on Yarrow." 

She"s torn the ribbons frae her head 
That were baith braid and narrow ; 

She's kilted up her lang claithing, 
And she's awa' to Yarrow. 

She's ta'en him in her amies twa, 
And gi'en him kisses thorough ; 

She Ronght to bind his many wounds, 
But ho lay dead on Yarrow. 

" Oh, hand yonr tongue," her father says, 

"Aud let bo a' yonr sorrow; 
I'll wed you to a better lord 

Than him ye lost on Yarrow." 


" Ob, Laud your tougue, father," she says ; 

" Far ^varse ye mak' my sorrow : 
A better lord could never be 

Thau him that lies ou Yarrow." 

She kissed his lips, she kaimed his hair, 

As aft she'd doue before, O ; 
Auil there wi' grief her heart did break, 

Upou the banks o' Yarrow. 



This is but one of the uumemus Robin Ilood brillads, i)opn. 
Inr in England early in the 15th century, perhaps earlier. It 
is from an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony 
Wood. Robin Hood was born abont IIGO, in the rei^u of 
Heuiy II. 

When Robin Ilood in the gvecuwood lived, 
Deriij, dcn-y, down, 
Under the greenwood-tree. 
Tidings there came to him with speed. 
Tidings for certainty, 

Htif down, dcrrij, derry, doicn. 

That Will Stutly surprised was. 

And eke in prison lay ; 
Three varlets that the sheriff had hired. 

Did likely him betray : 

I, and to-morrow hanged must be, 

To-morrow as soon as it is day ; 
Before they could this victory get, 

Two of them did Stutly slay. 

When Robin Hood he heard this news. 

Lord ! he was grievdd sore ; 
And to his merry men he did say 

(Who altogether swore). 

That Will Stutly should rescued he. 

And be brought back again ; 
Or else should many a gallant wight 

For his sake there be slain. 

He clothed himself in scarlet red. 

His men were all in green ; 
A liner show, throughout the world. 

In no place could be seen. 

Good Lord ! it was a gallant sight 

To see them all on a row ; 
With every man a good broad sword, 

And eke a good yew bow. 

Forth of the greenwood are they gone. 

Yea, all courageously. 
Resolving to bring Stutly home. 

Or every man to die. 

And when they came the castle near, 

AVhereas Will Stutly l.ay, 
" I hold it good," saith Robin Hood, 

" We here in ambush stay, 

"And send one forth some news to hear. 

To yonder palmer fair. 
That stands under the castle wall, 

Some news he may declare." 

With that steps forth a brave young man. 

Which was of courage bold, 
Thus did he speak to the old man : 

" I pray thee, palmer old, 

"Tell me, if that thou rightly ken. 

When must Will Stutly die. 
Who is one of bold Roljiu's men. 

And here doth prisoner lie V 

"Alack! alas!" the palmer said, 

"And forever wo is me ! 
Will Stutly hanged must be this day, 

Ou yonder gallows-tree. 

" Oh, had his noble in,aster known. 

He would some succor send ; 
A few of his bold yeomandrio 

Full soon would fetch him hence." 

" I, that is true," the young man s.aid ; 

" I, that is true," said he. 
" Or, if they were near to this place. 

They soon would set him free. 

" But fare thee well, then good old man, 

Farewell, and thanks to thee ; 
If Stutly hanged be this day. 

Revenged his death will be." 

He was no sooner from the palmer gone, 
But the g.ates were opened wide. 

And out of the castle Will Stutly came. 
Guarded ou every side. 

Wlien he was forth of the castle come. 

And no help was nigh. 
Thus he did say to the sheriff, 

'J'hus he said gallautly : 



" Now seeing that I needs must die, 

Grant lue one boon," said he, 
" For my noble master iie'er had a man. 

That hanged \vas on the tree : 

" Give me a sword all in ray hand. 

And let me be unbound. 
And with thee and thy men I'll fight, 

'Till I lie dead ou the ground." 

But his desire he would not grant. 

His wishes were in vain ; 
For the sheriff had sworn ho hanged should bo, 

And not by the sword be slain. 

"Do but nnbiud my hands," he says; 

" I will no weapons crave ; 
And if I hang(5d be this day. 

Damnation let me have." 

" Oh no, oh no," the sheriff said, 

" Thou shalt ou the gallows die, 
I, and so shall thy master too. 

If ever in me it lie." 

" Oh. dastai'd coward !" Stntly cries, 

"Thou faint-heart peasant slave! 
If ever my master do thee meet, 

Thou shalt thy payment have. 

" My noble master doth thee scorn, 

And all thy coward crew ; 
Such silly imps unable are 

Bold Kobin to subdue." 

But when lie was to the gallows come. 

And I'eady to bid adieu. 
Out of a bush leaps Little John, 

And conies Will Stutly to : 

" I pray thee. Will, before thou die. 

Of thy dear friends take leave ; 
I needs must borrow him for a while, 

How say you, master shrieve ?" 

"Now, as I live," the slicriff he said, 

" That varlet well I know ; 
Some sturdy rebel is that same, 

Therefore let him not go." 

Tlicn Little .)ohn most hastily 

Away cut Stutly's bauds, 
And from one of the sheriff's men 

A sword twitcht from his hands. 

" Here, Will, take thou this same, my lad. 

Thou canst it better sway ; 
And here defend thyself awhile. 

For aid will come straightway." 

And there they turned them back to back. 

In the middle of them that day. 
Till Robin Hood approached near. 

With man}- an archer gay. 

With that an arrow by them flew, 

I wist from Eobiii Hood. 
" Make haste, make haste," the sheriff he said, 

" Make haste, for it is good." 

The sheriff is gone, his doughty men 

Thought it no boot to stay. 
But .as their master had them taught, 

They ran full fast away. 

"Oh stay, oh stay," Will Stutly said; 

" Take leave ere you depart ; 
Y(ni ne'er will catch bold Kobin Hood, 

Unless you dare Lim meet." 

" Oh ill betide you," quoth Robin Hood, 

" That you so soon are gone ; 
My sword may in the scabbard rest, 

For here our work is done." 

" I little thought," Will Stutly said, 

" When I came to this place, 
For to have met with Little John, 

Or seen my master's face." 

Thus Stutly was at liberty set, 

And safe brought from his foe : 
" Oh thanks, oh thanks to my mast-dr. 

Since hero it was not so. 

"And ouco again, my fellows all. 
We shall in the gi-een woods meet. 

Where we will make our bow-striugs twang, 
SInsio for us most sweet." 


AxosTMors (liefore 1689). 

Begone, dull care ! 

1 prithee begone from me; 
Begone, dull cai'o ! 

Thou and I can never agree. 



Luii;^ wliile thou hast been tarrying hero, 
Ami fain thovi woiildst me kill ; 

But i' faith, dull care. 

Thou never shalt have thy will. 

Tiio niucli care 

Will make a, young man gray; 
Too much care 

Will turn an old niau to clay. 
My Tvife shall dauce, and I will sing. 

So merrily pass the day; 
For I hold it is the wisest thing 

To drive dull care away. 

Hence, dull care ! 

I'll none of thy company ; 
Hence, dull care ! 

Thou art uo pair for me. 
We'll hunt the wild boar through the wold, 

So merrily iiass the day ; 
And theii at night, o'er a cheerful bow). 

We'll drive dull care away. 

Simon Wastell (1560-1630), 

Like as the damask rose you see. 

Or like the blossom on the tree. 

Or like the dainty flower in May, 

Or like the morning of the day. 

Or like the sun, or like the shade, 

Or like the gourd wliich Jonas had; — 

Even such is man, thread is spun, 

Drawn out and cut, and so is done. 

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth ; 

The flower fades, tlie morning hasteth ; 

The sun sets, the shadow flies; 

The gourd consumes, and man lie dies. 

Like to the grass that's newly sprung. 
Or like a tale that's new begun, 
Or like the bird that's here to-day. 
Or like the pearl(5d dew of May, 
Or like an hour, or like a span. 
Or like the singing of a swan ; 
Even such is man, who lives by breath. 
Is here, now there, in life and death. 

The grass withers, the t.ale is ended : 

The bird is flown, the dew's ascended ; 

The hour is short, the span not long ; 

The swan near death ; man's life is done. 



Come, listen to me, you gallants so free. 

All you that love mirth for to hear, 
And I will tell you of a bold outlaw 

That lived in Nottinghamshire. 
As Robin Hood in the forest stood. 

All under the greenwood tree. 
There he was aware of a brave young man, 

As fine as fine might be. 
The youngster was clothed in scarlet red, 

In scarlet fine and gay ; 
And he did frisk it over the plain. 

And chanted a roundelay. 

As Robin Hood next morning stood 

Amongst the leaves so gay, 
There did he espy the same young man 

Come drooping along the way. 
The scarlet he wore the day before 

It was clean cast away ; 
And at every step he fetched a sigh — 

"Alack, and a well-a-day !" 
Then stepp(5d forth brave Little John, 

And Midge, the miller's son, 
Which made the young man bend his bow, 

When as he saw them come. 

"Stand off, stand otf !'' the young man said; 

" What is your will vsMth me ?" 
"You must come before our master straight. 

Under yon greenwood tree." 
And when he came bold Robin before, 

Robin asked hira courteously, 
"Oh, hast thou any money to spare 

For my merry men and me ?" 
"I have no money," the young man said, 

" But five sliillings and a ring ; 
And that I have kept this seven long years. 

To have it at my wedding. 

" Yesterday I should have married a maid, 

But she soon from me was ta'eu, 
And chosen to be an old knight's delight. 

Whereby my poor heart is slain." 
"What is thy name ?" then said Robin Hood; 

" Come, tell me without any fail." 
" By the faith of my body," then said the young 

" My name it is Allin-a-Dale." 
"What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, 

" In ready gold or fee, 



To help thee to thy true love agniu, 
And deliver her uuto thee?" 

" I have iio money," then quoth the youug man, 

"No ready gold nor fee ; 
But I will swear upon a hook 

Thy true servaut for to he." 
"How many miles is it to thy true love? 

Come, tell me without guile." 
"By the faith of my hody," tlieii said the youn^ 

"It i.s but five little mile." 
Theu Kobin he hasted over the plain, 

He did neither stiut uor bin. 
Until he came unto the church 

AVhere AUin should keep his wedding, 

"What hast tliou here?" the bishop then said; 

"I prithee now tell unto me." 
"I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, 

"And the best iu the north couutree." 
" O welcome, O welcome !" the bishop he said, 

"That music best pleaseth me." 
"You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, 

"Till the bride and the bridegroom I see." 
With tliat came in a wealthy knight. 

Which was both grave and old; 
And after him a finikin lass 

"Tliis is not a fit match," quoth bold Robin Hood, 

" That you do seem to make here ; 
For siuce we are come into the church, 

Tlie bride shall choose her owu dear." 
Then Eobiu Hood put his horn to his mouth, 

And blow blasts two or three, 
Wheu four-aud-tweuty bowmen bold 

Came leaping o'er the lea. 
And when they came into the church-yard, 

Marching all in a row. 
The very first man was Allin-a-Dale 

To give bold Eobiu his bow. 

"This is thy true love," Robin he said, 

"Young Allin, as I hear say; 
And you shall be married at this same time, 

Before we depart away." 
"That shall not be," the bishop he said, 

" For thy word shall not stand ; 
They shall be three times asked in the churcli, 

As the law is of our land." 
Eobiu Hood pulled off the bishop's coat. 

And put it on Little John : 

" By the faith of my body," theu Eobiu said, 
" This cloth doth make thee a man." 

When Little John went into the quire 

The peoi)le began to laugh ; 
He asked them seven times iu the church, 

Lest three times should not bo enough. 
"Who gives mc this maid?" said Little John. 

Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; 
And he that takes her from Allin-a-Dale, 

Full dearly he shall her buy." 
And thus having end of this merry wedding. 

The bride looked like a queen ; 
And so they returned to the merry greenwood, 

Amongst the leaves so green. 



Fu'St published as an old song in Allan R.inis.ay's "Ten-Table 
Miscellany," in 1T24. Part of it (by Koliei t Chambers all of it) 
has been pieced into a later ballad on the Jlarchioness of 
Duiislass; married IGTO, and deserted by her husband. 

Oil waly, waly,' up the bank, 

Oil waly, waly, douu the brae," 
And waly, waly, you burn-side," 

Where I and my love were wont to gae ! 
I leaned my back unto an aik, 

I thoclit it was a trustie tree, 
But first it bowed, and syne it brak', — 

And sao did my fause love to me. 

OU waly, waly, but love bo bonuie 

A little time while it is new! 
But when it's auld it waxeth cauld, 

And fadoth awa' like the morning dew. 
Oh, wherefore should I busk* my lieid. 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair f 
For my true love has mo forsook, 

And says he'll never lo'e me mair. 

Noo Arthur's- Seat sail be my bed. 

The sheets sail ne'er be pressed by me ; 
Saint Anton's Well' sail bo my drink; 

Since ray true love's forsaken me. 
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw. 

And sbake the green leaves off the tree ? 
Oh gentle death, when wilt thou come 1 

For of my life I am weario. 

1 An exclamation of sorrow, the root and the pronuuciatiou 
of wliich are preserved in cati'riraitl, 

2 Hill-side. » Brook. •! Adorn. 

6 Saint Anton's Well was at the foot of Arthur's Seat, by 


'Tis not the frost tliat freezes fell, 

Nor blawiiig siiaw's iticlemeucie, 
'Tis not sic cauld that makes nie cry ; 

But my love's heart grown caulil to me. 
When we cam' in by Glas-gow toun, 

AVe were a comely sicht to see ; 
My love was clad in the black velvet, 

An' I niysel' in craniasie.' 

Bnt had I wist, before I kissed, 

That love had been so ill to win, 
I'd locked my heart in a case o' goiul. 

And pinned it wi' a siller pin. 
Oh, oh! if my yonng babe were born, 

And set upon the nurse's knee ; 
And I mysel' were deid and gone, 

Aud the green grass growing over me ! 



This remarkable little dramatic ballad was first printed in 
Percy's "Reliques," from a mauuscript transmitted by Lord 
Ilailes. Tliere are several versious; and a good German trans- 
lation of it by Herder. 

"Why does yonr brand sac drap wi' blade, 

Edward, Edward ? 
Why does your brand sae drap wi' blnde, 

And why sae sad gang ye, ?" 
■' Oh, I lia'e killed my hawk sae gnde, 

Mitlier, niither : 
Oh, I ha'e killed my hawk sae glide, 

Aud I ha'e nae mair but he, 0." 

" Yonr hawk's blnde was never sae red, 

Edward, Edward : 
Your hawk's blnde was never sae red, 

My dear sou, I tell thee, O." 
"Oh, I ha'e killed my red-roan steed, 

Mither, mither : 
Oh, I ha'e killed my red-roan steed, 

That was sae fair and free, O." 

"Y''Bur steed was anhl, .and ye've plenty mair, 

Edward, Edward : 
Your steed was anhl, aud ye've plenty mair ; 

Some i titer dnle ye dree,' 0." 
"Oh, I ha'e killed my father, 

Mither, mither: 
Oh, I lia'e killed my father ! 
Alas ! and wae is me, O !" 

' Crimson. = S^me other grief yoa suffer. 

"What penauce will ye dree for thtit, 
Edward, Edward f 
What penance will ye dree for that ? 
My dear son, now tell me, O." 
"I'll set my feet in yonder boat, 

Mither, mither : 
I'll set my feet in yonder boat. 

And ril fare o'er the sea, O." 


"And what will ye do wi' your towers and ha', 

Edward, Edward ? 
Aud what will ye do wi' your towers and ha'. 

That were sae fair to see, O ?" 
"I'll let them stand till they donu fa', 

Mither, mither : 
I'll let them stand till they donu fa'; 
For here I maunna be, O." 

"And what will ye leave to your bairns aud wife, 

Edward, Edward ? 
And what will ye leave to your bairns aud wife, 

Wheit ye gang o'er the sea, O ?" 
" TIio warld's room : let them beg through life, 

Mither, mither: 
The warld's room : let tlieni beg through life ; 
For them I ne'er matiu see, O." 

"And what will ye leave to your mither dear, 

Edward, Edward ? 
And what will ye leave to your mither dear ? 

My dear son, now tell me, O." 
"The curse of hell frae me sail ye bear, 

Mither, mither : 
The curse of hell frae me sail ye bear, — ■ 
Sic conusels ye gied me, !" 


Anonymous (1570). 

Love me little, love me long. 
Is the burden of my song. 
Love that is too hot aud strong 

Biirneth soon to waste. 
Still I wotilil not have thee cold, 
Not too backward or too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old 

Fadeth uot iu haste. 

If thou lovest me too much, 
'Twill not prove as true as touch ; 
Love me little, more than such. 
For I fear the cud. 



I'm with little well content, 
And a little from tbeo sent 
Is enough, with true intent. 
To be steadl'ast friend. 

Say thou loy'st me while thou live, 
I to thee my love will give, 
I^evcr dreaming to deceive 

While tliat life endures : 
Nay, and after death, in sootb, 
I to thee will keep my truth 
As now. In my May of youth, 

Tbis my love assures. 

Constant love is moder.ate ever. 
And it will through life pers6ver; 
Give me that, with true endeavor 

I will it restore ; 
A snic of durance let it be 
For all weathers ; that for me, 
For tlio land or for the sea, 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or Summer's heat, 
Antumu's tempests on it beat. 
It cau never know defeat. 

Never can rebel : 
Such the love that I would gain, 
Such the love, I tell thee jilain, 
Thou must give, or woo in vain — 

So to thee farewell ! 



It is not beauty I demand, 

A crystal brow, the moon's despair. 
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand. 

Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair : 
# # # ^ # j» 

Give me, instead of beauty's bust, 

A tender heart, a loyal mind, 
Which with temptation I wonld trust. 

Yet never linked with error find, — 
One iu whose gentle bosom I 

Could pour my secret heart of woes, 
Like the eare-bnrdeued honey-lly. 

That hides bis nuirmnrs in tbo rose, — 
My earthly comforter! whose lovo 

So indefeasible might be. 
That when my spirit wouned above. 

Hers could not stay for sympathy. 



Chidiock Tychhorn, the niUhor of these line?, shared in Bab- 
in^tou's consijiracy, and was executed with him in 1586. For 
move about him, see an article in D'Israeli's "Curiosities of 

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares ; 

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain ; 
My crop of corn is but a field of tares ; 

And all my good is but vaiu hope of gain : 
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done. 

The spring is jiast, and yet it hath not sprung ; 

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green ; 
My youth is go)ie, and yet I am but young ; 

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen : 
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done. 

I sought my death, and found it iu the womb; 

I looked at life, and saw it was a shade ; 
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb ; 

And now I die, and now I am but made : 
The glass is full, and now my glass is run ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done. 



Mr. Motherwell supposes that this ballad is probably a La- 
ment for one of the adherents of the hotise of Argyle, who fell 
in the battle of Qlenlivat, October, 1094. 

Hie upon Hielands, and low upon Tay, 
Boiuiic George Campbell rade out on a day. 
Saddled and bridled and gallant rade be ; 
Hamo cam' his horse, but never cam' he ! 

Out cam' bis aiild niither, greeting fii' sair ; 
Aud out cam' bis bonuie bride, riving her hair. 
Saddled and bridled and booted rade he ; 
Toom' hame cam' the saddle, but never cam' he ! 

" My meadow lies green, aud my corn is unshorn ; 
My barn is to Ijigg,^ and my babie's imborn." 
Saddled and bridled and booted rade ho; 
Toom cam' the saddle, bnt never cam' he! 


= Build. 




The following is found in "ObFeivatinns on the Art of Eng- 
lish Poesy " (London, 1002), by Campion. The purpose 
of the book is mainly to prove that rhyme is altogether an un- 
necessary appendage to English verse. The lines are so grace- 
ful, it is a wonder that we have nothing more from the same 

Rose-cbeekcil Laiirn, come ! 
Sing tlioii smoothly -nitli tbj' bcattty's 
Silent music, either other 
Sweetlj- gracing. 

Lovely forms tlo flow 
From concent divinely framed ; 
Heaven is music, and thy beauty's 

Birth is heavenly. 

These dull notes we sing, 
Discords need for helps to grace them ; 
Only beauty ptirely loving 

Knows DO discord ; 

Bnt still moves delight, 
Like clear springs renewed by flowing. 
Ever perfect, ever in thcm- 

Selves eternal. 



This old poem, which was altered and enlarged by David 
Dickson, a Scotch clergyman CT5S3-16C'2), seems to have been by 
no means improved by the enlargement; and we give it here in 
its earlier form. Probably the hymn has received contributions 
from various hands, and it would seem to be partly derived 
from translations from the Latin. 

Jernsalem, my happy home, 

When shall I come to thee? 
When shall my sorrows have au end ? 

Tliy joys when shall I see ? 
happy harbor of the saints! 

O sweet and pleasant soil ! 
In thee no sorrow may be found, 

No grief, no care, no toil. 

In thee no sickness may be seen. 

Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore ; 
Tliere is no death, nor ugly dole, 

Bnt Life for evermore. 
Tliere lust and Incre cannot dwell, 

There envy bears no sway; 
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold. 

But pleasure every way. 

Thy walls are made of precious stones. 

Thy bulwarks diamonds square ; 
Thj' gates are of right orient pearl, 

Exceeding rich and ran;. 
Thy turrets and thy pinnacles 

With carbuncles do shine ; 
Thy very streets are pavetl with gold. 

Surpassing clear and fine. 

Thy houses are of ivory. 

Thy windows crjstal clear ; 
Thy tiles are made of beaten gold ; — 

O God, that I were there ! 
Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 

Would God I were iu thee! 
Would God my woes were at au end. 

Thy joys that I might see ! 

Thy saints are crowned with glorj- great; 

They see God face to face ; 
They triumph still, they still rejoice ; 

Most hapjiy is their case. 
We that are here in banishment 

Continually do moan ; 
We sigh and sob, wo wccji ami wail, 

Perpetually we groan. 

Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall. 

Our pleasure is but pain ; 
Our joys scarce last the looking on, 

Onr sorrows still remain. 
But there they live in such delight, 

Snch pleasure, and such play. 
As that to them a thousand years 

Doth seem as yesterday. 

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks 

Continually are green ; 
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 

As nowhere else are seen. 
Quite through the streets, with silver sound. 

The flood of Life doth flow ; 
Upon whose banks on every side 

The wood of Life doth grow. 

There trees for evermore bear fruit, 

And evermore do spring; 
There evermore the angels sit, 

And evermore do sing. 
Jerusalem, my happy home. 

Would God I were iu thee ! 
Would God my woes were at an end. 

Thy joys that I might see ! 





Helen Irving, daughter of the liiiril of Kirkconuell, in Dum- 
friesshire, was beloved by two gentlemen. The name of tiie 
one suitor was Adam Fleming; that of the other has escaped 
tradition. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored 
by the lady, and the lovers were obliged to meet iu the church- 
yard of Kirkconuell. During one of these iuterviews, the jeal- 
ous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the ojiposite bank 
of the stream, aud levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. 
Helen threw herself before her lover, received ir. her bosom the 
bullet, and died iu his arms. A desperate and mortal combat 
ensued between the rivals, iu which Fleming was cut to pieces. 
The graves of the lovers are still shown in the church-yard of 

I wish I Tivere where Helen lies! 
Xiglit and (lay on me she cries. 
Oh I were where Helen lies, 
On f:iir Kirlcconnell loa ! 

Cnrst bo the heart that thought the thought, 
Ami curst the haml tliat tired the sliot, 
When in my arms Inird' Helen dropt, 
And died to stteeor me ! 

Oil, think ye na my lieart was sair. 
When my love dropt down and .spaUc iiae ui:iir ? 
There did she swoon wi' meilile care, 
On fair Kirlcconnell lea. 

As I went down the water-side, 
None hut uiy foe to he my guide, 
None hut my foe to be my guide, 
Ou fair Kirkcouiiell lea, — 

I lighted down, my sword did draw ; 
I hache'd him in pieces sma', 
I liach(5d him in pieces sma'. 
For her salce tliat died for me. 

O Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
I'll weave a garland of thy hair 
Shall bind my heart for eveniiair, 
Until tlie day I dec ! 

Oil that I were where Helen lies! 
Night and day on me slie cries ; 
Out of my beil ,slie bi<ls me rise. 
Says, " Haste, and come to me !" 

O Helen fair! O Helen cliaste ! 
Were I with thee I would be blest, 

' Maid. 

Where tliou lies low and takes thy rest, 
On fair Kirkconuell lea. 

I wish my grave were growing green, 
A wiudiug-shcet drawn o'er my een, 
And I iu Helen's arms lying, 
On fair Kirkconuell lea. 

I wish I were where Helen lies! 
Night and day on me she cries, 
Aud I am weary of the skies. 
For her sake that died for me. 

luiiij iCljavlts 3. 

Cliarlcs I., King of England, grandson of Mary, Queen 
of Scots, was born at Dunfermline, in Scotland, iu IBOtl, 
and executed in London, January SOtli, 1049. Tlic poem 
from which the following twelve triplets arc taken con- 
sists of tweuty-four, most of them quite inferior to the 
following. Archbishop Trench does "not doubt that 
tliese lines are what they profess to be, the composition 
of King Charles; their autlienticity is stamped on every 
line." They are creditable to his literary culture, and 
show that he inherited some of the poetical faculty of 
his grandmollier. 


Great Monarch of (he winld, from whose power 

The potency and power of kings. 
Record the royal woe my snfi'ering sings. 

Nature and law by Tliy divine decree 
(The only root of righteous royalty),- 
Willi Ihis dim diadem invested me. 

With it the sacred sceptre, pnrple robe, 
The holy unction, .and the royal globe ; 
Yet am I levelled with the life of ,Tob. 

* # * * * 

The hereest furies, that do daily frcid 
Upon my grief, my gray disei-owndd head. 
Are they that owe my bounty for their bread. 

Great Britain's heir i.s fore(?d into France, 
Whilst on his father's his foes advance : 
Poor child I he weeps at his inheritance. 

With my own power my majesty they wound. 
In the King's name the king's himself uncrowucd; 
So doth the dust destroy the diamond. 

sin WILLIAM riioMJs browse. 

AVitli propositions daily they enchant 

My people's ears — such as do reason d.-iniir, 

And the Almiglity will not let nie grant. 

Tlicy promise to erect my royal stem. 

Til make me great, to advance my diadem, 

If I will first fall down and worship them. 

My life tliey prize at such a slender rate, 
That in my absence they draw bills of hate, 
To prove the Uing a traitor to the State. 

Felons obtain more privilege than I ; 
They are allowed to answer ere they die; 
'Tis death for me to ask the reason why. 

But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo 

Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to 

Such as thou know'st do not know what they do. 

Augment my patience, nullify my hate. 

Preserve my is.sne, and inspire my mate; 

Yet, thougli we perish, bless this Church ami State! 

Sir lllilliam Dat)cnaiit. 

A native of O.'cford, Davenant (160.5-1668) succeeded 
Ben Jonson as poct-Iaureate. He was tlie son of an inn- 
keeper, and educated at O.xford. In 1643 he was knighted 
by King Charles. His works consist of dramas, masques, 
addresses, and an uufinislied epic called "Gondibert," 
which he dedicates to Hobbes. He left a son, Charles, 
wbo sat in Parliament, and distinguished himself some- 
what as a literary man. 


Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl. 

To purify the air ; 
Thj' tears to thread, instead of pearl, 

On bracelets of thy hair. 

Tlie trumpet makes the echo hearse. 
And wakes the louder drum ; 

E.xpenso of grief gains no remorse. 
When sorrow should be dumb : 

For I must go, where lazy peace 
Will hide her drowsy head ; 

And, fur the sport of kings, increase 
The number of the dead. 

But first I'll chide thy cruel theft ; 

Can I in war delight. 
Who, being of my heart bereft, 

Can have no heart to tight? 

TIiou know'st the sacred laws of old 
Ordained a thief should pay, 

To quit him of his theft, sevenfold 
What he had stolen away. ' 

Thy payment shall but double be ; 

Oh, then, with speed resign 
My own seduced heart to me, 

Accompauied with thine. 


Fair as unshaded light, or as the day 
In its first birth, when all the year was May;. 
Sweet as the altar's smoke, or as the new 
Unfolded bud, swelled by the early dew ; 
Smooth as the face of waters first appeared, 
Ere tides began to strive or winds were heard; 
Kind as the willing saints, and calmer far 
Than in their sleeps forgiven hermits are ; — 
Yon that are more tlian our discreeter fear 
Dares praise, with such full art, what make you 

here ? 
Here, where the summer is so little seen. 
That leaves, her cheapest wealth, scarce reach at 

green ; 
You come, as if the silver planet were 
Misled awhile from her much-injured sphere ; 
And, to ease the travels of her beams to-niglit. 
In this small lanthorn would contract her light. 

5ir iSljoiiuis Broiuiic. 

Browne (160.5-1683) is known chieHy for his prose 
writings. His •'Reliifio Medici" is still in demand at 
the book-stores. Of his poems we have one favorable 
specimen. He was born in London, became a practising 
physician at Norwich, and was knighted by Charles II. 
in 1671. 


The night is come: like to the day. 
Depart not Thou, great God, away ! 
Let not my sins, black as the night, 
Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. 


Keep still iu my liorizou ; fur to rue 

The sun makes not the day, but Thee. 

Thou Avhose nature cauuot sleep, 

On my temples sentry keep ! 

Guard me 'gaiust those vratchful foes, 

Whoso eyes are opeu while mine close ; 

Let no dreams my head infest, 

But such as Jacob's temples blest. 

While I do rest, my soul advance ; 

Make my sleep a holy trance, 

That I may, my rest being -n-rought, 

Awake into some holy thought ; 

And with as active vigor run 

My course as doth the nimble sun. 

Sleep is a death ; oh ! make me try, 

By sleeping, what it is to die : 

And as gently lay my head 

On my grave, as now my bed. 

Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 

Awake again at last with Thee. 

And thus assured, behold I lie 

Securely, or to wake or die. 

These are my drowsy days; iu vain 

I do now wake to sleep again : 

Oil ! come that hour when I shall never 

Sleep again, bnt wake forever. 

(PDmuuL) lUallcr. 

Waller (1C0.5-1C87) flourislicd unclL-r the rule of Cliai-les I. 
and Charles II. His mother was aunt of the celeliratctl 
John Hampden, wlio was first cousin both of Edmund 
Waller and Oliver Cromwell. Rich an^ well-born, Wal- 
ler was educated at Eton, and became a member of Par- 
liament at eisliteen. His political life was eventful, and 
not wholly to his credit. He sat in all the p.arliaments 
of Charles II., and was the delight of the House : even at 
eighty years of age lie was the liveliest and wittiest man 
within its walls. His verses are smooth and polished, 
but superliciiil. Overpraised iu his day, his fame has, not 
undeservedly, declined. lie was left heir to an estate 
of £3500 in his inlancy, and was either a Roundhead or 
a Roj-alist, as the time served. At twenty-five he mar- 
ried a rich heiress of London, who died the same year. 
Kasy and witty, he was j'ct cold and selfish. 


Go, lovely Rose, 
Tell her that wastes her time and me 

That now she knows. 
When I resemble her to thee. 
How .sweet and fair she seems to be.. 

Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thon must have uncommcnded died. 

Small is the ^^orth 
Of Beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth. 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read iu tliee : 
How small a part of lime they share 
Tiiat are so wondrous sweet and fair. 


Tliat which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
No nioiiarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my heaven's cxtreniest sphere. 
The pale which held that lovely deer ; 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow comiiass, and yet there 
Dwelt all tliat's good and all that's fair: 
Give mo but what this riband bound. 
Take all the rest the snu goes round. 

lUilliaiu tjiabiucitou. 

Habington (1C0.5-1G4.5) was a Roman Catholic. He was 
educated at St. Omer's and Paris, and after his return to 
England married the lady who is the "Castara" of his 
volume of poems. He had no stormy passions to agitate 
him, no unruly imagination to control. His verses arc 
often of a jjlacid, tender, elegant description, but studded 
with conceits. 


No monument of me remain, — 
My nienuny rust 
III the .same marble with my dust,- 
Kre I (he spreading laurel gain 
By writing wanton or profane! 



lorions woiulei's of the skies ! 
Sliiiie still, briglit stars, 

Tlio Aliniglity's mystic cbaractpvs ! 
I'll not your beauteous lights surprise 
To illiiniinatc a woman's eyes. 

Nor to perfume her veins will I 
lu each one set 
The purple of the violet : 
The uiitoHcbed flowers may grow and ilio 
Safe from my fancy's injury. 

Open my lips, great God ! and then 
I'll soar above 
The humble flight of enrnal love : 
Upward to thee I'll force my pen. 
And trace uo paths of vulgar men. 

For what can our unbounded souls 
Worthy to be 
Tlieir oljject find, excepting thee? 
Where can I fix? since time controls 
Our pride, whose motion all things rolls. 

Sliouhl I myself ingratiate 
To a prince's smile, 
How soon may death my hopes beguile! 
And should I farm the proudest state, 
I'm tenant to uncertain fate. 

If I court gold, will it not rust? 
And if my love 
Toward a female beauty move, 
How will that surfeit of our lust 
Distaste us when resolved to dust ! 

But thon, eternal bancinet! where 
Forever we 
May feed without satiety! 
Who harmony .art to the ear, — 
Who art, while all things else appear! 

While up to thee I shoot my flame, 
Thon dost dispense 
A boly death, that murders sense. 
And nuikes me scorn all pomps that aim 
At other triumphs than thy name. 

It crowns me with a victory 
So heavenly, — all 
That's earth from me away doth fall i 
And I, from my corruption free, 
Grow in my vows even part of thee. 

3ol)u iUiltou. 

Jlilton (1008-1074) was the younger son of a London 
scrivener in good circumstances. At sixteen ho entered 
Clii'ist's College, Cambridge; taking his degree of M.A. 
in 1033, about which time he wrote "L'Allegro," "II 
Penseroso," "Comus," "Lycidas," and other of his 
shorter poems. Afterward he travelled in Italy for 
some tiftcen months, and visited blind old Galileo. Re- 
turning to England, he kept school for "nwliile. He 
strongly advocated the Republican cause, and, on the 
death of Cliarlcs I., was appointed Latin Secretary to the 
Council of State. At tlie Restoration he retired into 
private life ; and it was tlicn, in liis old age, when he had 
become totally blind, that be wrote his immortal poems, 
" Paradise Lost " and " Paradise Regained." 

Milton was married three limes — first, in 1643, to Mary 
Powell. It was a hasty marriage, and an unhappy one. 
Six years after her death he was united to Catherine 
Woodcock, with whom be lived happily for a year, 
when, to his great grief, she died. It is of her he speaks 
in one of liis sonnets as "his lote espoused saint." In 
lUCO he married Elizabeth Minshull,who proved an ex- 
cellent wife. Milton's English sonnets, seventeen in 
number, are happily described by Wordsworth as " soul- 
animating strains, alas ! too few." Johnson, however, 
could not see their grandeur, and explained what he 
considered Milton's "failure" by remarking to Hannah 
More, "Milton's was a genius that could hew a Colos- 
sus out of a rock, but could not carve heads on cherry- 
stones." In bis youth Milton was remarkable for his 
beauty of countenance. His life was tlie pattern of sim- 
plicity and purity, almost to austerity. He acted from 
his youtli as "under his great Taskmaster's eye." 

Milton's two juvenile poems, "L'Allegro" and "II 
Penseroso," hardly deserve the reputation they have 
long held. Ho evidently took bis hints for them partly 
from a forgotten poem prefixed to Burton's "Anatomy 
of Melancholy," and partly from the song, by Beaumont 
and Fletcher, "Hence, all you vain delights!" (which 
see). The poem in Burton's boolv has these lines : 

"When I go musing nil nlnne, 
Tliinkiug of diverse things foreknown : 
When I build castles in the air, 
Void of sorrow, vtiid of fear. 
Pleasing m3'?eif with ijhantusnis sweet, 
Metliinks the time runs very fleet. 

All my joys to this are folly ; 

Naught so sweet as Melancholy I" 

The remainder of the poem is still more suggestive of 
resemblance, both in the measure and the general tone. 
The following tribute to the nobility of Milton's charac- 
ter is paid by Maeaulay : "If ever despondency and as- 
perity could be excused in any man, it might have been 
excused in Milton. But the strength of liis mind over- 
came every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor 
age, nor penury, nor domestic ntflictions, nor political 
disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neg- 
lect, had power to disturb his sedate and majestic pa- 
tience." The fame of this eminent poet seems to have 
been undisturbed by the lapse of time. 




Hence, loatlitfd Meliiiichdly, 

Of Ccibonis and blackest Miduiglit bovn ! 

lu Sfygian cave forloni, 

'Mongst iKirriil sliaiies, and shrieks, and sights 

Find ont Kciniis nncnnth cell. 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous 

And the night-raven sings ; 

Thei'p, nnder ebon shades, and low-browed rocks. 

As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cinniierian desert ever dwell. 
But come, thou goddess, fair and free. 
In heaven y-cleped Enphrosyne,' 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth! 
Whom lovely Venns at a birth, 
With two sister Graces more. 
To ivy-crownM Bacchus bore; 
Or whether (as some sages sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring. 
Zephyr with Aurora playing — 
As he met her once a-Maying — 
There, on beds of violets bine. 
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
Filleil her with tliee, a daughter fair, 
So bnxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest and youthful Jollity, — 
Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
Nods, and Becks, aiul wreatlnSd Smiles, 
Scich as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; — 
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it, as you go, 
On the light fantastic toe; 
And in tliy right hand lead with thee 
Tlie mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And if I give thee honor due. 
Mirth, admit mo of thy crew, 
To live with her, and live with tlice, 
In nnrcprov^d pleasures free; — 
To hear the lark begin his flight, 
And, singing, startle the dull night 
From liis watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 
Then to come, in spit* of sorrow. 
And at my window bid good-morrow, 

' 'I'lip m.m of mirth. 

2 Eiiphnsi/ne iGr.), Clieoirulnese: one ot tho Gi-nces. 

Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 

Or the twisted eglantine ;' 

While the cock, with lively din. 

Scatters the rear of darkness thin. 

And to the stack or the barn-door 

Stoutly stmts his dames before ; — 

Oft listening how the hounds and horu 

Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, 

From the side of some hoar hill. 

Through the high wood echoing shrill ; — 

Some time walking, not unseen. 

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 

Right against the eastern gate, 

Where the great sun begins his state. 

Robed in flames and amber light, 

The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 

While tlie ploughman near at band 

Whistles o'er tho furrowed land, 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 

And the mower whets his scythe. 

And every shepherd tells his tale 

Under tho hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new iileasurcs, 
Wliilst the landscape round it measures: 
Russet lawns and fallows gray. 
Where tlic nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest ; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tnfted trees, 
Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, 
The Cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes. 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met. 
Are at their savory dinner set. 
Of herbs and other country messes, 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses: 
And tln^n iu haste her bower she leaves, 
Willi Tliestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the e:irlier season lead 
To the tauned hay-cock in the mead. 
Sometimes with .secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring r()un<l. 
And the jocund rebecks'' sound 
To many a youth and many a maid 
Dancing iu the checkered shade ; 

1 Wiirton pnys : '* Sweetbrier and eglantine ni-c the piime 
plant; by the 'twisted egluntine ' he therefttre ine;n).« it;^ 
honeysuckle." " A Hurt of tiddle. 



Ami yoniig anil old coiuo forth to l>l:iy 

On a sunsliine lioliilay, 

Till tbe livelong dayliglit fail ;— 

Tlieu to tlie spicy iiut-biowii ale, 

With stories tolil of many a feat, 

How fairy Mab the junkets eat ; 

She was iiincheil and pulled, she said, 

And he by friars' laiithoni led ; 

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. 

His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 

That ten day-laborers conld not end ; 

Then lies him down, the lubber fiend! 

And. stretched out all the chimney's length, 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 

And, crop-full, out-of-doors he flings 

Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 

By whispering winds soon lulled to sl(!cp. 

Towered cities please us then. 
And the busy hnm of men, 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
lu weeds of peace high triumphs hold, — 
With store of hulies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge tlie prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear, 
In saftVon robe, with taper clear, 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 
With mask and antiipie pageantry; 
Such sights as j'onthfnl poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Jonsou's learu6d sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakspcare, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce ; 
In notes with many a winding bout' 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning 
The melting voice through mazes running. 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony, — 
That Orpheus' S(df may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 

A fold or twist. 

Of heaped El^sian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pinto to have rjnite set free 
His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 


Hence, vain, deluding joys, 
The brood of folly, -without father bred ! 

How little yon bestead. 

Or fill the fix6d mind with all your toys! 

Dwell in some idle brain. 

And fancies fond with gaudj' shapes jiossess, 

As thick and numberless 

As the gaj' motes that people the sunbeams. 

Or likcst hovering dreams. 

The fickle pensioners of Morpliens' train. 
But hail, then goddess, sage and holy! 
Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To liit the sense of human sight, 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's line; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memuon's sister might beseem. 
Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended ; 
Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore, 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain): 
Oft in glimmering bowers anil glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure. 
All in a robe of darkest grain. 
Flowing with majestic train. 
And sable stole of cypress' lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
With even step, and musing gait. 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt .soul sitting in thine eyes: 

> The mcl.^ncholy m.nn. 

2 A tliiii tralispareut te.xliu'e. 



There, held in holy passiou still, 

Forget thyself to marble, till 

With a sad, leaden, downward cast 

Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; 

And join with thee calm Peace and Qniet, 

Sparc Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 

And add to these retired Leisure, 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 

Bnt first and chiefest, with thee bring 

Him that yon soars on golden wing, 

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne. 

The cherub Contemplation ; 

And the mute Silence hist along, 

'Less Philomel will deign a song. 

In her sweetest, saddest plight, 

Smoothing the rugged brow of night. 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 

Gently o'er the accustomed oak : 

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. 

Most musical, most melancholy ! 

Thee, cUantress, oft the woods among 

I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 

And, missing thee, I walk unseen 

On the dry smooth-shaven green. 

To behold the wandering moon. 

Riding near her highest noon. 

Like one that had been led astray 

Through the heaven's wide, pathless way; 

And oft, as if her head she bowed. 

Stooping thnuigh a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfew sound 

Over some wide-watered sh(n'e. 

Swinging slow with sullen roar; 

Or, if the air will not permit. 

Some still, removed place will fit, 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 

Far fr<uu all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth, 

Or the bellman's' drowsy charm 

To bless the doors from nightly harm: — 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour 

He seen in some high, hmely tower, 

AVhere I may oft out-watch the Bear, 

With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 

The spirit of Plato, to unfold 

What worlds or what vast regions hold 

1 Anciently tlio wntclinian, who cried ttie liour?, used s^utidry 
beuedictioDG. — Waktun. 

The immortal mind that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 
VVhose power hath a true consent 
With planet or with element. 

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptered pall come sweeping by. 
Presenting Thebes, or Pclops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine. 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musasus from his bower ! 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string. 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
And made Hell grant what love did seek I 
Or call up him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold,' 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Cauace to wife. 
That owned the virtuous ring and glass, 
And of the wondrous horse of brass 
On which the Tartar king did ride ; 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung. 
Of tourneys and of trophies hung. 
Of forests, and euehantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy jiale career. 
Till civil-suited Morn appear. 
Not tricked and frounced," as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud. 
While rocking winds are piping loud. 
Or ushered with a shower still, 
Wlicn the gust hath blown his fill, 
Emling on the rustling leaves. 
With minute" drops from ofl' the eaves. 
And when tlie sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves. 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 
Of pine or monumental oak. 
Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke. 
Was never heard the Nym[>hs to daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallowed h.innt. 

> A reference to the "Squii-e's T:\le," by Ch:\ncer. 
- From the Frencli /rojicer, to curl, juid refers to nn excei^sive 
dic^sinir of the linir. 
= Tli:it is, dnijis at intci-viils, by minntes. 



Tliere, in close covert, by some bmoU, 
AVliere no juofauer eye may loolc, 
Hide me from day's garisli eye, 
While the bee with honeyed thigli, 
That at her llowery work doth sing, 
And the waters murmuring 
With such consort as they keep 
Entice the dewy-feathered s!eci> ; 
And let some strange, mysterious dream 
Wave at his winga in aery stream 
Of lively portraiture displaj'ed, 
Softly on my eyelids laid ; 
And iis I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath, 
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good. 
Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale, 
And love the high embowM roof. 
With antic pillars massy proof. 
And storied windows, richly dight. 
Casting a dim, religious light : 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full- voiced quire below. 
In service high and anthems clear. 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 
Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
The hairy gown and mossy cell, 
AVhere I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show. 
And every herb that sips the dew. 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give. 
And I with thee will choose to live. 


This noble monody written in memory of n dear nnd 
learned friend, Mr. Edward King, Fellow of Ctirist's College, 
and flrst appeared in a Cambridge collection of verses on the 
subject, I03S. 

Yet once more, oh ye laurels, and once more 

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude ; 

And, with forced fingers rude. 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year : 

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. 

Compels me to disturb your season due : 

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
Ho must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the iiarchiiig wind. 
Without the meed of .some melodious tear. 

Begin then. Sisters of the sacred well, 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse : 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favor my destined urn ; 
And as he passes turn. 
And bid fair peace be to my sable 

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock, bj' fountain, shade, and rill. 
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
Under the opeuing eyelids of the Morn, 
We drove a-field, and both together heard 
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night. 
Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright. 
Toward heaven's descent hail sloped his westering 

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not nnite. 
Tempered to the oaten flute; 

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven lieel 
From the glad sound would not be absent long; 
And old Damcctas loved to hear our song. 

But, oh the heavy change, now thou art gone. 
Now thou art gone and never must return! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves. 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 
And all their echoes mourn : 
The willows and the hazel copses green 
Shall now no more be seen 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose, 
Or t.aint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
When first the white-thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. 

Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie. 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : 
Ay me ! I fondly dream ! 

Had ye been there — for what could that have done ? 
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 



The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 
■\Vhi)ni nniversal Nature did lament, 
When by the rout that made the hideous roar 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebriis, to the Lesbian shore ? 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade, 
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
Were it not better done, as others use. 
To sjiort with Amaryllis in the shade. 
Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise- 
Tljat last infiraiity of noble mind — 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorr<^d shears. 
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise, 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling eais ; 
" Fame is uo plant that grows on mortal soil. 
Nor in the glistering foil 

Set-off to the world, nor iu broad rumor lies; 
But lives, and spreads aloft by those pure eyes. 
And iierfect witness of all-judging Jove; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 
O fountain Arethnse, aiul thou honored flood. 
Smooth-sliding Mincins, crowned with vocal reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
But now my oat proceeds. 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came iu Neptune's plea. 
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds. 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain ; 
And questioned every gust of rugged wings 
Tliat blows from off each beaked promontory : 
They knew not of his story ; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Pauope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark. 
Built in the eclipse, and rigged vrith curses dark, 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 
"Ah, who hath reft (qnoth he) my dearest pledge?" 
Last came, and last did go, 
The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(Tlie goldcMi opes, tlio iron shuts amain); 

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 
" How well could I have spared for thee, young 

Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, aiul intrude, and climb into the fidd! 
Of other care they little reckoning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how 

to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 
What recks it them ? What need they ? They are 

sped ; 
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw : 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw. 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
Beside what the grim wolf with privy paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said : 
But that two-handed engine at the door 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 

Eeturn, Alphens! the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams. Return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
0:i whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks. 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes. 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine. 
The white pink and the pansy freaked witli jet, 
The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine. 
With cowslips wau that hang the pensive head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears: 
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed. 
And dalfadillies "fill their cups with tears. 
To strew the laureate herse where Lycid lies. 
For, so to interpose a little ease. 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; 
Ay me! whilst tliee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurleil. 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide, 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world : 
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
Wliere the great vision of the guarded mount 



Looks toward Naiuaiicos ami Bayoua's bold ; 
LiKik homeward, angel, uow, aud melt with ruth : 
And, O je dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 

Wi-ep uo more, wofnl shepherds, weep uo more ; 
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 
Sunk though he be heueath the watery floor: 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
Aud yet auoii repairs his drooping head, 
Aud tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 
So Lyeidas suulc low, but mounted high. 
Through the dear might of Him that walked the 

Where, other groves aud other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
Aud hears the uuexpressive nuptial song, 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy aud love. 
There entertain him all the saints above 
lu solemn (roops aud sweet societies, 
Tliat siug, and, singing, iu their glory move, 
Aud wipe the tears forever from his eyes. 
Now, Lyeidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Tlius sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and 
While still the Morn went out with sandals gray; 
He touched tlie tender stops of various quills. 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: 
And now tlie sun had stretched out all the hills, 
Aud now was dropt into the western bay; 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue ; 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 


From " Sasisos Agonistes." 

Occasions drew me early to this city; 
Aud as the gates I entered with suni-ise, 
Tlie morning trumpets festival proclaimed 
Through each high street: little I had despatched 
When all abroad was rumored that this day 
Samson should be brought forth to show the people 
Proof of his mighty strength in feats and games: 
I sorrowed at his captive state, but miuded 
Not to be absent at that spectacle. 
The building was a spacious theatre, 
Half-rouud, on two main pillars vaulted high, 
With seats, where all the lords and each degree 
Of sort mighi sit iu order to behold : 

The other side was open, where the throng 

On bauks aud scaffolds nuder sky might stand ; 

I among these aloof obscurely stood. 

The feast and noou grew high, aud sacrifice 

Had tilled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, aud 

When to their sports they turned. Lnmediately 
Was Samson its a public servant brought, 
In their state livery clad : before him iiipes 
And timbrels; on each side went armeil guards. 
Both horse and foot: before him and behind. 
Archers aud slingers, cataphracts and spears. 
At sight of him the people with a shout 
Rifted the air, clamoring their god w ith praise, 
Who had made their dreadful euemy their thrall. 
He, patient but undaunted, where they led him, 
Came to the place; aud what was set before 

Which without help of eye might be assayed, 
To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performed 
All with incredible, stupendous force, 
Noue d:iring to appear antagonist. 
At length, for iutermissiou' sake, the.y led him 
Between the pillars ; he his guide requested 
(For so from such as nearer stood we heard). 
As over-tired, to let him lean aw hile 
With both his arms 'ou those two massy pillars 
That to the arched roof gave main support. 
He, unsuspicious, led him ; which when Samson 
Felt iu his arms, with head awhile inclined, 
And eyes fast fixed, he stood as one w ho prayeil, 
Or some great matter iu his mind revolved. 
At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud : — 
Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed 
I have performed, as reason was, obeying. 
Not without wonder or delight beheld : 
Now of my own accord such other trial 
I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater. 
As with amaze shall strike all who behold. 
This uttered, straining all his nerves, he bowed : 
As with the force of winds aud waters pent. 
When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars 
With horrible convulsion to and fro 
He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew 
The whole roof after them, with burst of thuuder. 
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath. 
Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests. 
Their choice nobility and flower, not only 
Of this, but each Philistiau city round. 
Met from all parts to solemnize this feast. 
Samson, with these immised, inevit;ibly 
Pulled down the same destruction ou himself; 
The vulgar only 'scaped, who stood without. 




Comtis. Can any mortal mixture of earth's monkl 
Breatlie such divine, enchanting ravishment? 
Sure, something holy lodges iu that breast, 
And vrith these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence. 
How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, 
At every fall smoothing the raven-down 
Of darkness till it smiled ! I have oft heard 
My mother Circe, with the Syrens three, 
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs; 
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul 
And lap it in Elysium : Scylla wept, 
And chid her barking waves into attention. 
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause; 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense. 
And in sweet madness robbed it of itself: 
But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now. I'll speak to her. 
And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign wonder! 
Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, 
Unless the goddess that, iu rural shrine, 
Dwell'st here with Pan or Sylvan ; by blessed song 
Fiuliidding every bleak, unkindly fog 
To touch the iirosperous growth of this tall wood. 

Lailij. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 
That IS addressed to unattending ears : 
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 
How to regain my severed company, 
Compelled mo to awake the courteous Echo, 
To give me answer from her mossy conch. 

Cum. What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you 
thus ? 

Lad. Dim darkness and this leafy labyriuth. 

Com. Could that divide you from uear-ushering 
guides ? 

L<i(l. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 

Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why ? 

Lad. To K(!ek i' the valley some cool friendly 

Com. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady? 

Lad. They were but twain, and i)urposed quick 

Com.. Perhaps forestalling night iireventcd them. 

Lad. How easy my misfortune is to hit! 

Com. Imports their loss beside the present need ? 

Lad. No less than if I should my brothers lose. 

Com. Were they of nuiuly prime, or youthful 
bloom ? 

Lad. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazored lips. 

Com. Two such I saw what time the labored ox 
In his loose traces from the furrow came, 
And the swiuked hedger at liis supper sat. 
I saw them under a green mantling vine 
That crawls along the side of you small hill, 
Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots. 
Their jiort was more than human as they stood : 
I took it for a faery vision 
Of some gay creatures of the element, 
That in the colors of the rainbow live, 
And play i' the plighted clouds. I was awc-strucl;. 
And, as I passed, I worshipped : if those you seek, 
It were a journey like tlie path to heaven 
To lielj) you find them. 

Lad. Gentle villager. 

What readiest way would bring me to that jilace ? 

Com. Duo west it rises from this shrubby point. 

Lad. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose. 
In such a scant allowance of starlighf. 
Would overtask the best land-pilot's art 
Without the sure guess of well-practi.sed feet. 

Com. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood. 
And every bosky liourn from side to side. 
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
And if your stray attendance be yet lodged. 
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
From her thatched pallet i' ; if otherwise, 
I can conduct yon, Lady, to a low 
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
Till farther quest. 

Lad. Shepherd, I take thy word. 

And trust thy honest ottered courtesy, 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly shed 
With smoky rafters than in tapestry halls 
In courts of princes, where it first was named, 
And yet is most pretended : in a place 
Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
I cauuot be, that I should fear to change it. — 
Eye me, blessed Providence, and square my trial 
To my proportioned strength. — Shepherd, lead on ! 


FiioM " PAnADisE Lost," Book II. 

The other shape. 
If shape it might be ealU'd that shape had none 
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; 
Or substance might be called tliat shadow seemed, 



For each seemed either; black it stood as night, 
Fierce as ten fnries, terrible as hell, 
And shook a dreadful dart ; what seemed his head 
The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 
Satan was uow at hand, and from his seat 
The monster moving onward came as fast 
With horrid strides ; hell trembled as he strode. 
The nndannted fiend what this might bo admired — 
Admired, not feared ; God and his Sou except, 
Created thing' nanght valned he, nor shunned ; 
And with disdainful look tlins first began : 

'■Wlience and what art tbon, execrable shape, 
That darest, thongh grim and terrible, advance 
Th}- miscreated front athwart my way 
To yonder gates ° Throngh them I mean to pass, 
Tliat be assnred, withont leave asked of thee: 
Eetire, or taste thy folly, and learn by proof. 
Hell-born, not to contend with spirits of heaven." 

To whom tho goblin, fnll of wrath, replied : 
"Art thou that traitor-angel, art thou he, 
Who first broke peace in heaven, and faith, till then 
Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms 
Drew after him the third jiart of heaven's sons 
Conjured against the Highest; for which both thou 
And they, outcast from God, are here condemned 
To waste eternal days in woe aud pain ? 
And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven. 
Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here and scorn, 
Wliere I reign king, and, to enrage tlieo more. 
Thy king and lord? Back to thy punishment, 
False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings. 
Lest witli a whip of scorpions I pursue 
Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart 
Strange horror seize thee, aud pangs unfelt before." 

So spake the grisly Terror, aud in shape. 
So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold 
More dreadful and deform. On the other side. 
Incensed with indignation, Satan stood, 
Unterrified, aud lilie ,a comet burned. 
That fires the length of Ophiuchus" huge 
In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 
Shakes pestilence and war. Each at tho head 
Levelled his deadly aim ; their fatal hands 
Xo second stroke intend ; and such a frown 
Each cast at the other as when two black clouds. 
With heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling ou 
Over the Caspian, then stand front to front. 
Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow 
To join their dark encounter in mid-air : 

•. ' "C.eated thiug." This species of, or, rather, 
^' logical, error occurs more th.-iii once in Miltou. 

2 Or, Serpeni.iriii?, the ser|K'nt-bearer, a conspicuous coustel- 
latton in tiie northern hemisi>here. 

So frowned tho mighty combatants that hell 
Grew darker at their frown; so matched they stood, 
For never but once more was either like 
To meet so great a foe :' and now great deeds 
Had been achieved whereof all hell had rung, 
Had not the snaky sorceress that sat 
Fast by hell-gate, and kept tho fatal key. 
Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between. 

From "Paradise Lost," Book V, 

These are thy glorious works. Parent of good, 
Almighty! thine this universal frame. 
Thus wondrous fair : thyself how wondrous then ! 
Unsiie.akable ! who sitt'st above these heavens, 
To us invisible, or dimly seen 
In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
Tliy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sous of light. 
Angels! for ye behold liim, ami with songs 
And choral symphonies day witliout night 
Circle bis throne, rejoicing : ye, in heaven ; 
Ou earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol 
Him first, him last, him midst, aud without end I 
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
Witli thy bright circlet! him in thy sphere. 
While day arises, that sweet lionr of prime. 
Thou sun, of this great world both eye ami soul, 
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
And when high noon hast gained, aud when thou 

Moon, now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st, 
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb, that flies; 
Aud ye five other wamlering fires, that move 
In mystic dance, not without song, resound 
His praise who out of darkness called ui> light. 
Air, and ye elements, tho eldest birth 
Of nature's womb, that iu quaternion run 
Perpetual circle, multiform, aud mix 
And nourish all things : let your ceaseless change 
Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
Ye mists aud exhalations, that now rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky, or gray. 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, — 
In honor to the world's great Author rise ; 
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, 

' The Messiah. 




Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 

Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, yo winds, that from fonr quarters 1jlow, 

Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 

With every phmt, in sign of worship wave. 

Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow. 

Melodious niurmnrs, warbling, tune his praise. 

Join voices, all ye living souls : ye birds. 

That, singing, up to heaveu-gate ascend, 

Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 

The earth, and .stately tread, or lowly creep, 

AVitness if I be silent, morn or even. 

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, 

Made vocal by my song, and tauglit his praise. 

Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still 

To give us only good ; and if the night 

Have gathered anglit of evil, or concealed. 

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark! 


From " Paradise Lost," Book V. 

To whom the wiugi^d Hierarch replied : 
O Adam, one Almighty is, from whom 
All things proceed, and up to hiui return, 
If not depraved from good ; created all 
Such to iierfectioM, one first matter all. 
Endued with various fiuin.s, various degrees 
Of substance, and, in things that live, of life ; 
But more refined, more siiirituous, and ]uirc, 
As nearer to him placed, or nearer tending 
Each in their several active sphei-es assigned. 
Till body up to spirit work, in bounds 
Proportioned to each kind. So from the root 
Springs lighter the green stalk ; from thence the 

More aery ; last the bright consunimato flower 
Spirits odorous breathes : flowers and their fruit, 
Man's nourishment, by gradual scale sublimed. 
To vital spirits aspire, to animal. 
To intellectual; give both life and, 
Fancy and nuderstanding : whence the soul 
Reason receives, aud reason is her being, 
Discursive or intuitive : discourse 
Is oftest yours ; the latter most is ours, 
Differing but in degree, of kind the same. 
Wonder not, then, what God for you saw good 
If I refuse not, but convert, as you. 
To proper substance. Time may come when nun 
With angels may participate, and find 
No iuconvenient diet, nor too light fare ; 

And from these corporeal nutriments, perhaps, 
Your bodies may at last turn all to spirit, 
Improved by tract of time, and, winged, ascend 
Ethereal, as we; or may, at choice, 
Here or in heavenly Paradises dwell ; 
If ye lie found obedient, and retain 
Unalterably firm his love entire 
Whose progeny yo4i are. Meanwhile enjoy 
Your fill what happiness this happj' state 
Can compveheiul, incapable of more. 


Christ's Reply to the Tempter, "Paradise Regained," Book III. 

To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied : 

Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth 

For empire's sake, nor empire to afl'ect 

For glory's, sake, by all thy argument. 

For what is glory but the blaze of fame, 

The people's praise, if always praise unmixed ? 

And what the people but a herd confused, 

A miscellaneous rabble, who extol 

Things vulgar, aud, well weighed, scarce worth tlu^ 

praise ? 
They praise and they admire they know not what. 
And know not whom, but as one leads the other: 
And what delight to be by such extolled. 
To live upon their tongues, and be their talk. 
Of whom to be disprai.sed were no small praise — 
His lot who dares be singularly good ? 
The intelligent among them, and the wise. 
Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised, 

if * * * * ♦ 

They err who count it glorious to snbdno 

By conquest far aud wide, to overrun 

Largo countries, and in field great battles win, 

Great cities by assault. What do these worthies 

But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave 

Peaceable nations, neighboring or remote. 

Made captive, yet deserving freedom more 

Than those theu" conquerors, who leave behind 

Nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove, 

Aud all the flourishing works of peace destroy, 

Then swell with pride, and must be titled gods, 

Great benefactors of mankind, deliverers, 

AVorshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice ? 

One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other, 

Till comiueror Death discover them scarce men, 

Rolling in brutish vices, and deformed, 

Violent or shameful death their due reward. 

But if there bo in glory aught of good. 

It may by means far diflerent be attained, 



Without ambition, -n-iir, or violence — 
I3y deeds of peace, by -wisdom eminent, 
liy patience, temperance. I mention still 
Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne. 
Made famous in a land and times obscure: 
Who names not now with honor patient Job ? 
Poor Socrates (who next more memorable ?), 
By what ho taught and suffered for so doing, 
For truth's sake sutfering death uujust, lives now 
Equal iu fame to jirondest conriuerors. 
Yet if for fame and glory aught be done, 
Aught suffered ; if young Africaue for fame 
His wasted country freed from Punic rage. 
The deed becomes unpraised — the man, at least — 
And loses, though but verbal, bis reward. 
Shall I seek glory, then, as vaiu men seek, 
Oft not deserved ? I seek not mine, but His 
Who sent me, aud thereby witness whence I am. 


What needs my ShaUspeare for his honored bones 

The labor of an age in piled stones? 

Or that his hallowed relinues should be hid 

Under a star-y pointing pyramid ? 

Dear son of Memory, heir of Fame, 

1 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy 
name ? 
Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a live-long monument; 
For whilst, to the shamo of slow-endeavoring art, 
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, — 
Then thou, our fancy of itself liereaving, 

■ Bost make us marble with too much conceiving, 
Aud so sepulchred, iu such pomp dost lie 
That kiuKS for such a tomb would wish to die. 


How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth. 
Stolen on liis wing my three-and-tweutieth year! 
Jly basting days fly on with full career. 
But my l.ifc spring no bud or blossom show'th. tt'y semblance might deceive the truth 
That I to manhood ain arrived so near, 
And inw.ird ripeness doth much less appear 
That somo mure tiniely-hapiiy spirits eudu'th. 

Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow. 
It shall be still in strictest measure even 
To that same lot, however mean or high. 
Toward which Time leads me, aud the will of 

Heaven ; 
All is, if I have grace to use it so, 
As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. 



Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud. 
Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed. 
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued : 
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, 
And Dunbar tield resounds thy praises loud, 
And Worcester's laureate wreath. Y'et much re- 
To conquer still : Peace hath her victories, 
No less renowned thau War : new foes arise, 
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. 
Help us to save free conscieuce from the p.iw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 


Tane, young iu years, but iu sago counsel old, 

Thau whom a better senator ne'er held 

The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled 

The fierce Epirot and the African bold : 

Whether to settle peace, or to unfold 

The drift of hollow .states hard to be sijelled ; 

Then to advise how War may, best upheld, 

Move by ber two main nerves, iron and gold. 

In all her ecxuipage ; besides to kuow 

Both spiritual jiower aud civil — what each means. 

What severs each — thou hast learued, which few 

have done : 
The bounds of either sword to thee we owe 
Tlierefore on thy firm hand Religion leans 
In iieace, aud reckons thee her eldest son. 


Wheu I consider how ray light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 

And that oue talent wLich is death to hide 



Lodged -with me useless, tbougli my soul more 

To servo tbcrcwith my Maker, aud present 
My true account, lest he, returniug, chide ; 
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" 
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 
Boar his mild yoke, they serve him best ; Lis 

Is kingly ; tliousauds at his biddiug speed, 
Aud post o'er laud and ocean without rest : 
Thej' also servo who only stand and wait." 


Lawreuce, of virtuous father virtuous sorf, 

Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire. 

Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 

Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 

From the hard season gaining? Time will run 

On smoother till Favonius reinspiro 

Tlie frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 

Tl)e lily aud rose, that neither sowed nor spun. 

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice. 

Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 

To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice 

Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air ? 

He who of those delights can judge, and spare 

To interpose them oft, is uot unwise. 


Cyriac, this three -years-day these eyes, though 
To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of suu, or moou, or star, throughout the year, 
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou 
ask ? 
The eonscieuce, friend, to have lost them over- 
In liberty's defence, my noble task. 
Of which all Europe riugs from side to side. 
This thought might lead me through the world's 

vain mask 
Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 


When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, 
Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, 
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load 
Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever. 
Thy works, and alms, and all thj' good endeavor 
Stayed uot behind, nor in the grave were trod ; 
But, as Faith jjointed with her golden rod. 
Followed thee up to joy aud bliss forever. 
Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best. 
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams 
And azure wings, that up they flew so drcst. 
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes 
Before the Judge, who theuceforth bid thee rest, 
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams. 


Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 
Comes dancing from the east, aud leads with her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! 
Woods aud groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill aud dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early soug, 
Aud welcome thee, aud wish thee loug. 


To the ocean now I fly, 

Aud those happy climes that lie 

Where day never shuts his eye. 

Up in the broad fields of the sky. 

There I suck the liquid air, 

All amidst the gardens fair 

Of Hesperus and his daughters three. 

That sing about the golden tree : 

Along the crisped shades and bowers 

Revels the sjn'uce and jocimd Spring: 

The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours 

Thither all their bounties bring ; 

There eterual Summer dwell.-. 

And west-winds, with muskv \iii.'.. 

About the cedarn alleys fliu:; 

Nard and cassia's balmy smells. 

men Ann ceashatt. 


But now my task is smoothly done, 
I cau fly or I can run 
Quickly to the green earth's eutl, 
Wljpro the bowed welkin slow doth bend, 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 

Mortals, that would follow me, 
Love Virtue ; she alone is free ; 
She can teach yon how to climb 
Higher than the sphcry chime ; 
Or, if Virtue feeble were. 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 

Hicljavi) CErasljatii. 

Crashaw (about 1610-lfi.50) was e.ducated at Cambridge, 
aiKl loolv holy orders. lu France he became a Roman 
Catholic. Hia religious poetry and his translatious from 
Latin and Italian are of a liigli order, tliough marred by 
the affectations fashinnable in his day. In the same 
year that he graduated he published a volume of poems, 
ehieQy religious, in Lathi. They contain one memorable 
line. Referring to Christ's miracle of turning water into 
wine, he wrote : 

"Nynipha pudica Denin vidit, et erubaii." 
(The modest water saw its God, aud blushed.) 


That which makes us have no need 
Of iihysic, that's physic indeed. 

Hark, hither, reader ! would'st thou see 
Nature her own physician be ? 
Would'st see a man all his own wealth, 
His own physic, his own health? 
A man whose sober soul can tell 
How to wear her garments well — 
Her garmeuts, that upon her sit. 
As garmeuts should do, close and fit; 
A well-clothed soul, that's not oppressed. 
Nor choked with what she should be dressed ; 
A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine, 
Through which all her bright features shine ; 
As when a piece of wanton lawn, 
A thin al'rial veil, is drawn 
O'er Beauty's face, seeming to hide, 
More sweetly shows the blnshiiig bride; 

» Leouard Le.«sins wiis not a i>hysiciaii, but a famous Jesnit. 
He was born near ,\iit«'erp in 1.5.54, tniii;ht pliilosoi)by and the- 
olo2:y at Louvain, inid died in 1623. Air.oug his works was one 
on die True Rule of IIc:\[ih. In whicli be recommcuds hyijieuic 
remedies, aud disapproves oC Jrngs. 

A soul whose intellectual beams 

No mists do mask, no lazy steams ? 

A happy soul, that all the way 

To heaven hath a summer's day ? 

Would'st see a man whose well-warmed blood 

Bathes him in a genuine flood? 

A man whose tuudd humors be 

A seat of rarest harmony ? 

Would'st see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile 

Age ? Would'st see December smile ? 

Would'st see a nest of roses grow 

In a bed of reverend snow ? 

Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering 

Winter's self into a spring ? 

In sum, would'st see a man that cau 

Live to be old, and still a man ? 

Whose latest aud most leaden hours 

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers; 

And, when life's sweet fable ends, 

Soul aud body jiart like friends : — 

No quarrels, murmurs, no delay ; 

A kiss, a sigh, and so away ? 

This rare one, reader, would'st thou see ? 

Hark, hither! and — thyself be he! 


Whoe'er she be. 

That not impossible she. 

That shall command my heart aud me : 

Where'er she lie. 

Locked up from mortal eye. 

In shady leaves of destiny : 

Till that ripe birth 

Of studied fate stand forth, 

Aud teach her fair steps to our earth : 

Till that divine 

Idea take a shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : 

Meet yon her, my Wishes, 

Bespeak her to my blisses. 

And bo ye called my absent kisses. 

I wish her beauty. 

That owes not all its duty 

To gaudy tire or glistering shoe-tio ; — 



Sometliiiig more than 
Tiiffata or tissue can. 
Or rampant featlitr, or ricU fan : 

More tliau tire spoil 

Of sliop, or silkworm's toil, 

Or a bought blnsli, or a set smile : 

A face tbat's best 

By its own beauty dressed, 

And can alone command the rest : 

A face made up 

Out of no other shop 

Thau what Nature's white haud sets ope : 

* if i' # * * 

A cheek where grows 
More than a morning rose, 
Which to no bos his being owes. 
Eyes that displace 
The neighbor diamond, and outface 
That sunshine by their own sweet grace. 

Tresses that wear 

Jewels, but to declare 

How much themselves more precious are. 

Days that need borrow 

No part of their good morrow 

From a fore-speut night of sorrow : 

Days that, in spite 
Of darkness, by the light 
Of a clear mind are day all night ; 
Life, that dares send 
A challeuge to his cud, 
Aud when it comes, say. Welcome, friend ! 

Sidueian' showers 

Of sweet discourse, whose powers 

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers: 

Soft silken hours, 

Opeu suns, shady bowers, 

'IJove all — nothing witliiu that lowers: 

Whate'er delight 

Can nnike day's forehead bright, 

Or give down to the wings of night. 

1 Either in :illusii)n to the couve!*s:itinii.s ia the "Arcadia," 
or to Sir Philip Siiliiey himself, as a model of geutleuess in 
spirit aud demeanor. 

I wish her store 

Of worth may leave her poor 

Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. 

Now, if Time knows 

That her, whose radiant brows 

Weave them a garland of my vows; 

Her, wliose just bays 

My future hojies can raise 

A trophy to her present praise ; 

Her, that dares be 

What these lines wish to see : 

I seek no further, it is she. 

'Tis she, and here, 

Lo, I unclothe and clear 

My Wish's cloudy character. 

May she enjoy it. 

Whose merit dare apply it, 

But modesty dares still deny it. 

Such worth as this is 
Shall fix my flying wishes, 
And determine them to kisses. 

Let her full glory, 

My Fancies, fly before ye, 

Be ye my iictions, but — her story. 


Two went to pray? Oh, rather say, 
One went to brag, the other to pray. 

One stands up close, and treads on high, 
Where the other dares uot lend his eye. 

One nearer to God's altar trod. 
The other to the altar's God. 

iUan]ui5 of iUontrosc. 

James Graham, Minquis of Montrose (1612-1650), de- 
scended from an ancient Scotch family, was a famous 
royalist imder Charles I. lie woD a series of Ijrilliant 
victories as commander of tlic royal fo'iees. Under a 
commission from Cliarlcs l\. tlicn in exile, lie landed in 



Scotland, but liis little invadius army was routed, and 
Iiu was seized, conveyed to Edinburg;Ii, and tliere liung 
and quartered, May SIst, 1650, after the barbarous fasli- 
ion of tbe times. Of the following spirited poem tbere 
are several corrui^t versions. 


My <U'ar and only love, I piay 

That little world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But moiiareby : 
For if coufiisiou Lave a part, 

Which virtuous souls abhor, 
And hold a synod iu thy heart, 

I'll never love thee more. 

As Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A riv.ll on my throne. 
He either fears bis fate too nineh. 

Or bis deserts are small, 
AA'ho dares not put it to the touch 

To gain or lose it all. 

But I will reign and govern still. 

And always give the law, 
And li.ave each subject at my will, 

And .ill to stand in awe : 
But 'gainst my batteries if I find 

Tlion storm, or Tex me sore, 
As if thou set me as a blind, 

I'll never love thee more. 

And iu tbe empire of thy heart, 

Where I should solely be, 
If others do pretend a part, 

Or dare to share with me, — • 
Or com'mittees if tbou erect. 

Or go on such a score, 
I'll smiling mocli at tby neglect. 

And never love thee more. 

But if no faithless action stain 

Thy love and constant word, 
I'll make tbee famous by my pen. 

And glorious by my sword : 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

As ne'er was known before ; 
I'll deck and crown tby head -with bays, 

And love thee more and more. 

Sir 3o\)n Sudxiing. 

Suckling (1009-16-11) was born at Witliam, in Middle- 
sex. His fatlier was Secretary of State to James I. The 
young poet went abroad, and served under Gustavus 
Adolphus of Sweden. Returning to England, he at- 
tempted with others to deliver Stratford from the Tow- 
er; for this lie was ordered to appear at the bar of the 
House of Commons, whereupon he set out for France. 
While stopping at an mn, he was robbed b^ a servant, 
who, to prevent pursuit, stuck the blade of a penknife 
inside his master's boot, and when Suckling, in haste, 
tried to draw it on, he received a wound, of,wEic^lic 


Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Prythee, why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move ber, 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prytbee, why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prythee, why so mute? 
Will, when sxieaking well cau't wiu ber. 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prytbee, why so mute ? 

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move. 

This cannot take ber ; 
If of herself she will not love. 

Nothing can make ber : 

Tbe devil take her! 

Sir 3o\}n Din\)am. 

Denham (1615-1668), son of the Chief-baron of Ex- 
chequer in Ireland, was born at Dublin. He was made 
Governor of Farnhara Castle by Charles I., who told 
him, on seeing one of his poems, "that when men are 
young, and have little else to do, they may vent the over- 
flowings of their fimey in that way ; but when they are 
thought tit for more serious employments, if they still 
persisted in that course, it looked as if they minded not 
the way to any better." The poet stood corrected, and 
his Muse was dumb for a time. His marriage was an 
unhappy one, and his closing years were darkened by in- 
sanity, from which, however, he recovered. His princi- 
pal poem is "Cooper's Hill," which was highly praised 
for a few generations, but would hardly have escaped 
oblivion if produced iu these days; but Dryden said of 
it: "For the majesty of the style it is, and ever will be, 
the exact standard of good writing;" and Pope extolled 
it. We quote the well-known pas.sage descriptive of 
the Thames : it is far above anj thing else in the poem. 




FnoM " Cooper's Hill." 

My eye, desceiuling from the bill, surveys 

Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays : 

Thames, the most lovetl of all the Ocean's sous 

By his olil sire, to his embraces runs ; 

Hasting to pay his tribute to tlie sea, 

Like mortal life to meet eternity. 

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, 

Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold; 

His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, 

Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, 

O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, 

And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring; 

Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, 

Like mothers which tlieir infants overlay ; 

Nor with a sudden and imij'etuous wave, 

Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. 

No unexpected inundations spoil 

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughmau's toil ; 

But godlike his unwearied bounty flows; 

First loves to do, then loves the good he does. 

Nor are his blessings to his banks confined. 

But free and common as the sea or wind, — 

When he, to boast or to disperse his stores, 

Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, 

Visits the world, and in his tlying tours 

Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours ; 

Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants. 

Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants. 

So that to us no thing, no place, is strange, 

While his fair bosom is the world's Exchange. 

Oh, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream 

My great example, as it is my theme ! 

Though deep, yet clear ; though gentle, yet not 

dull ; 
Strong, without rage ; without o'erllowing, full ! 

Samuel Butler. 

The son of a Worcestershire farmer, Samuel Butler 
(101".i-lC80) is not knowu to have had a university edu- 
cation. Having lost liis wife's fortune through bad in- 
vestments, he became an author, and published in IfitiS 
the first part of his "HucHbras," a satire launched at the 
Puritan party. It is indclitcd for much of its celebrity 
to public sympathy with its partisan hits. It had a hu-ge 
success, and has been praised as " the best burlesque 
poem iu the English language" — which is not saying 
much for it. It now lias few readers. But it contains 
several epigrammatic expressions which liavc Ijccouie 
provcrliial, and it is rich in wit and wisdom. Butler 

died obscurely in his sixty-eighth year, having suffeied 
deeply from tbat hope deferred whidi maketh the heart 


He was in logic a. great critic. 
Profoundly skilled in analytic. 
He could distinguish and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and sonth-west side : 
Ou either which he could dispute. 
Confute, change hands, and still confute. 
He'd undertake to prove, by force 
Of argument, — a man's no horse ; 
He'd iirovc a buzzard is no fowl. 
And that a lord may be an owl ; 
A calf an alderman ; a goose a justice ; 
And rooks conmiittee-meu and trustees. 
He"d run in debt by disjiutation, 
And pay with ratiocination : 
All this by syllogism, true 
In mood and figure, he would do. 

For rhetoric — he could not ope 
His month but out there flew a trope. 
And when he happened to break off 
r the middle of his speech, or cough, 
He'd hard words readj' to show \\\\\, 
And tell what rules he did it by ; 
Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
You'd thiuk he talked like other folk ; 
For all a rhetorician's rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools. 

But, when he pleased to show't, his speech. 
In loftiness of sound was rich ; 
A dialect. 
Which learudd pedants much afl'ect. 
It was a party-colored dress 
or patched aiul piebald langnages. 
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 
Like fn.stian heretofore on satin. 
It had an odd promiscuous tone, 
As if he'd talked throe parts in one. 
Which made" some think when he did gabble 
They'd heard three laborers of Babel, 
Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
A leash of languages at once. 


Far greater numbers have been lost by hopes 
Thau all the magazines of daggers, ro])cs. 
And other ammunitions of desjvair, 
Wei'o ever able to despatch by fear. 



In Rome no temple was so low- 
As tlmt of Honor, built to show 
How humble bonor ougbt to be, 
Though there 'twas all authority. 

Some people's fortunes, like a weft or stray, 
Are only gained by losing of their way. 

The truest characters of ignorance 

Are vanity and pride and arrogance, 

As blind men use to bear their noses higher 

Than those that have their eyes and sight entire. 

All smatterers are more brisk and pert 
Than those that understand an art ; 
As little sparkles shine more bright 
Thau glowing coals that give them light. 

Love is too great a happiness 
For wretcheil mortals to possess ; 
For could it hold inviolate 
Agaiust those cruelties of Fate 
Which all felicities below 
By rigid laws are subject to, 
It would become a bliss too high 
For perishing mortality, 
Translate to earth the joys above ; 

3crcinn (Tanlor. 

Known chiefly as a theologian, Toylor (1613-1667) was 
also in the highest sense a poet, as liis devotional writ- 
ings, though in prose, abundantly sliow. He was a na- 
tive of Cambridge, and having taken his degree at Coins 
College, was admitted to holy orders when he was little 
more than twenty. His wife was said to have been a 
natural daughter of Charles I. Taylor attached himself 
to the royal cause, and after encountering many vicissi- 
tudes of fortune, incident to civil wars, was made a bish- 
op by Charles II. in 16(>1. He seems to have been thor- 
oughly estimable as a man, and faithful in the discharge 
of his clerical duties. 


Lord ! come away ! 
Why dost thou stay ? 
Thy road is ready ; and thy iiaths, made straight, 

With longing expectatiou wait 
The consecration of thy beauteous feet ! 
Ride on triumphantly ! Behold, we lay 
Our lusts and proud wills in thy way ! 

Hosanua! Welcome to our hearts! Lord, here 
Thou hast a temple too ; and full as dear 
As that of Sion, and as full of sin : 
Nothing but thieves and robbers ihvell therein: 
Kuter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor! 
Crucify them, that they may never mcuc 
Profane that holy place 

Where thou hast chose to set thy face! 

And then, if our stiff tongues shall bp ' 
Mute in the praises of thy Deity, 

The stones out of the temple wall 
Shall cry aloud, and call 
Hosauna! and thy glorious footsteps greet! Ameu! 

Cjcnri) fUoic. 

Henry More (161-1-1C8T), who published in 1G42 a "Pla- 
tonical Song of the Soul," in four books, was si.^ years 
younger than Milton. He lived a hermit life at Cam- 
bridge, was a great admirer of Plato, a correspondent of 
Descartes, and a friend of Cudworth. He wrote various 
prose works, and in his "Immortality of the Soul" 
showed that lie was a full believer in apparitions and 
various psychical i:ilicnomcna. He fully sympathized 
with Gliinvil in his belief that there was a substantial 
basis of spiritual agency in witchcraft; and ho believed 
that he himself had had superhuman communications. 
He seems to have adopted the Platonic notion of the 
soul's prc-existence. 


Else, then, Aristo's son, assist my Muse! 

Let that high sprite which did enrich thy brains 

With choice conceits, some worthy thoughts infuse 

Worihy thy title and the reader's pains. 

And thou, O Lyeian sage ! whose peu contains 

Treasures of heavenly light with gentle lire, 

Ciive leave awhile to warm mo at thy flames, 

That I may also kindle sweet desire 

In holy minds that unto highest things aspire. 

For I would sing the pre-cxistency 
Of liuuiaM souls, and live once o'er again, 
By recollection and quick memory. 
All that is jiast since first we all begau ; 
But all too shallow be my wits to scan 
So deep a point, and mind too dull to clear 
So dark a matter. But thou, more than man, 
Aread, thou sacred soul of Plotiu dear ; 
Tell me what mortals are — tell what of old they 
* # # # ^f # 

Show fitly how the pre-existeut soul 
Euacts, and enters bodies here below, 



And then, entire unhurt, can leave tliis nionl. 
Ami tbeuee her airy vehicle can draw, 
In which by sense and motion they may know 
Better than Tve what things transacted he 
Upon the earth, and, when they list, may show 
Tlieniselves to friend or foe — their phantasie 
Jloiilding tlieir airy orb to gross consistency. 

Wherefore the sonl, possessed of matter meet. 
If she h:\tli power to operate thereon, 
Can eath transform this vehicle to sight, 
Dight with dne color figuration ; 
Can speak, can walk, and then dispear anon. 
Spreading herself in the dispersed air; 
Tlieii, if slie please, recall again what's gone: 
Those the nnconth mysteries of fancy are. 
Than thunder far more strong, more quick than 
lightning far. 

Uicljaib CttJ-tcr. 


Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse 
Who hath made tlie universe. 
* jf * * # * 

God is good, is wise, is strong — 
Witness all the creature-throng! 
Is confessed by every tongue — 
All return from whence they sprung. 
As the tliankful rivers pay 
What they borrowed of the sea. 

Now myself I do resign : 
Take me whole, I all am thine. 

Save, me, God, from self-desire, 
Death's dark pit, hell's raging fire, 
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire ! 
Let not lust my soul bemire ! 

Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing. 
Loudly sweep the trembling string. 
Bear a part, O wi.sdom's sous. 
Freed from vain religions! 

Kiso at once — let's sacrifice ! 
Odors sweet perfume the skies ! 
See how heavenly lightning fires 
Hearts Inflamed with high aspires: 
All the substance of our souls 
Up in clouds of inceuso rolls ! 
Leave wo nothing to oni-.selves 
Save a voice — what need wo else f — 
Or a hand to wear and tire 
On the thankful lute or lyre. 

Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse 
Who hath made the universe ! 

Born at Rowtlon, in Shropshire, Baxter (1615-1691), af- 
ter some desultory work at school, and a course of pri- 
vate theological study, passed into the ministry of the 
Church of England. But when the Act of Uniformity 
was passed in 166i, he left that Church and spent several 
years in active literary work. His "Saints' Everlasting 
Rest" and his "Call to the Unconverted" had vast suc- 
cess. His published writings (1830) fill twenty-three 
volumes. He believed in intercommunication with the 
spirit-world, and relates what he regarded as well au- 
thenticated instances of supersensual i)on"cr. He suf- 
fei-ed much for his non-conformist principles, and was 
brought (16S4) before the notorious Jeffreys on a frivo- 
lous charge of seditious utterances in his Notes on the 
New Testament. The brutal judge, on Baxter's at- 
tempting to speak, roared out: "Richard, Richard, dost 
thou think we will let thee poison the court? Richard, 
thou art an old fellow, an old knave ; thou hast written 
books enough to load a cart. Hadst thou been whipt out 
of thy writing trade forty years ago, it liad been happy." 

A poem of 168 lines, by Baxter, entitled "The Valedic- 
tion," appears in several collections : but it is inferior 
to the hymn we publish ; and of which eight only of the 
eleven four-line stanzas are here given. 


Now it belongs not to my care 

Whether I die or live ; 
To love and servo Thee is my share, 

And this Thj' grace must give. 

If death shall bruise the springing seed 

Before it come to fruit. 
The will with Thee goes for the deed, 

Thy life was in the root. 
->, # ^ ^ # * 

Would I long bear my heavy load, 

And keep my sorrows long? 
Would I long sin against my God, 

And bis dear mercy wrong ? 

How much is sinful fle.sli my foe, 

That doth my sonl pervert 
To linger here in sin and woe, 

And steals from God my heart! 

Christ leads mi' through no darker rooms 

Than ho went through before; 
He that unto God's kingdom comes 

Must enter by this door. 

Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet 
Thy blessi^d face to see; 



For if tliy work on earth be sweet, 
What will thy glory be? 

Then I shall end my sad eoniplaints, 

And Tveary sinful days, 
And join -with the triumphant saints 

That sing Jehovah's praise. 

My knowledge of that life is small: 

The eye of faith is /lim ; 
But it's enough that Christ knows all. 

And I shall he with Him. 

I^cm|2 llaugljaii. 

A native of W.ales, ( 1C14-169.5 ) studied at 
Oxfoid, first became a lawyer, then a pliysiciau ; but in 
neither profession was he successful in earning a com- 
jielency. Poverty seems to have dogged his steps. In 
the latter part of his life he became devout. Amidst the 
obscurities of his verse there are beauties that bespeak 
the genuine poet. Campbell; who bad little partiality 
for pious poets, compares these beauties to "wild flow- 
ers on a barren lieatli." In his own "Rainbow," he 
has, pcrliaps, unwittingly borrowed a "wild llowcr" or 
two from iMor Vauglian. 


Happy those early days, when I 
Sljiued in my angel infancy ! 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race, 
Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
But a -white, celestial thought; 
When yet I had not walked above 
A mile or two from my first love, 
And looking back at that short space. 
Could see a glimpse of his bright face; 
When ou some gilded cloud or flower 
My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 
And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity; 
Before I taught my tongue to wound 
My conscience with a sinful souud, 
Or had the black art to dispense 
A several sin to every sense, 
liut felt through all this tle-shly dress 
Bright shoots of everlastingness. 
Oh, how I long to travel hack 
And tread again that ancient track ! 
That I might once more reach that plain, 
Where first I left my glorious traiu ; 

From whence tlie enlightened spirit sees 
That shady City of Palm-trees. 
But ah! my soul with too nmch stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way! 
Some men a forward motion love, 
But I by backward steps would move ; 
And, when this dust falls to the urn, 
lu that state I came, return. 


Still youug and fine! hut what is still in view 
We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. 
How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye 
Thy burnished, llaniing arch did first descry! 
When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot 
Did with intentive looks watch every hour 
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! 
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and 

Forms tnru to music, clouds to smiles and air; 
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, aud pours 
Balm on the cleft earth, milk ou grass and flowers. 
Bright pledge of peace aud sunshine! the sure tie 
Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye! 
When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 
Distant and low, I can in thine see him 
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, 
Aud minds the covenant 'twixt all and One. 


They are all gone into the world of light! 

Aud I alone sit lingering here! 
Their very memory is fair and bright. 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking iu an air of glory, 
Whose_ light doth trample ou my days, — 

My days which are at best but dull and hoary. 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

O holy hope! aud high humility! 
High as the heavens above ! 



These are your walks, aud you liave sboned tbcm 
To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just! 

Shilling uowhere but in the dark ; 
What mysteries do lie beyoud thy dust. 

Could man outlook that mark! 

He that Iiatli I'niiiid some fledged bird's-uest may 

At first sight if the bird be flown; 
But what fair dell or grove he sings iu now. 

That is to him uukuowu. 

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams 
Call to the soul wlieu man doth sleep, 

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb. 

Her captive tlames must needs burn there; 

But when tlie hand that locked her up gives room. 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under tliee! 
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 

Into true liberty ! 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 
My pcrsi)ective still as they pass, — 

Or else remove me hence unto that hill, 
Where I shall need no glass. 


Thou who didst deny to me 
This world's adored felicity. 
And" every big imperious lust. 
Which fools admire in sinful dust; 
With those tine subtle twists that tie 
Their bundles of foul gallantry ; — 
Keep still my weak eyes from the sbiuc 
Of those gay things which are not Thine! 
And shut my ears against the noise 
Of wicked, though applauded, joys! 
For Thou in any laud hast store 
Of shades and coverts for Thy poor; 
Where from tin; busy dust and beat. 
As well as storms, they may retreat. 

A rock, a bush are downy beds. 

When Thou art there, crowning their heads 

With secret blessings, or a tire 

Made of the Comforter's live fire. 

And, when Thy goodness, in the dress 

Of anger, will not seem to bless, 

Yet dost thou give them that rich raiu 

W^hich as it drops clears all again. 

O what kind visits daily pass 
'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass! 
With what sweet looks dotli Thy love shine 
On these low violets of Thine, 
While the tall tulip is accurst. 
And crowns imperial die with thirst! 
O give me still those secret meals, 
Those rare repasts which Thy love deals ! 
Give me that joy Tvliicb none can grieve, 
And which in all griefs doth relieve. 
This is the portion thy child begs; 
Not that of rust, ami rags, and dregs. 


Even as a nurse, whose child's imperfect jiaco 
Can hardly lead his foot from place to place, 
Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go, 
Nor does uphold him for a step or two; 
But when she finds that ho begins to fall, 
She holds him up and kisses him withal: 
So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand 
Awhile to teach his infant faith to stand: 
But when lie sees his feeble strength begin 
To fail, he gently takes him up again. 

llicljavi!) Couditcc. 

Lovelace (1G18-165S), born iii a knightly mansion, was 
educated at Oxford. Of remarkable physical beauty, lie 
was the most unhappy of the Cavalier poets. For his 
gallant striignlcs in the royal cause he suB'urcd imprison- 
ment, during which he published his "Odes and Songs." 
He spent his fortune in the service of the King and in 
aid of poorer friends. The Lucasta {Lux casta, pure light ) 
of his verse was Lady SaclicvercU, whom lie loved, but 
who married another, after false reports that Lovelace 
hart been killed at Dunkirk. Under Cromwell he was 
set free, but lived in extreme poverty, and died of con- 
sumption, in great distress, in an alley in Shoe Lane. 
Much of his poetry is of little value, and disfigured with 
the obscurities and affectations which were the fashion 
of the day. Two at least of his poems are likely to 
hi^t as long as the English lan;;ii.ige. Tlicy breathe the 
knightly spirit of a true nobility. 




Whcu Love witli uuconfiu^il wings 

Hovers witUiu my gates, 
And my divine Altliea brings 

To wbisper at the grates ; 
Wlien I lie tangled in her bair, 

And fettered to her eye, 
Tlie birds that ■wanton in the air 

Know no snch liberty. 

When ilowing cups rnu swiftly round 

With 110 allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses bound, 

Onr hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free. 
Fishes that tipple in tlie deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When, like committed linnets, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, m.njesty, 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, bow great shonld be, 
Enlarg(5d winds that curl the flood 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love. 

And in my soul am fiee. 
Angels aloue that soar aboxo 

Enjoy such liberty. 


Tell mo not, sweet, I am nukind, 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the tield ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 
As you too shall adore ; 

I could not love thee, dear, so much, 
Loved I not honor more. 

^brialjam (l"ou)lcn. 

In the period of his reputation, Cowley (1618-1667) 
precedes Miltou ; lie died in the year of the publication 
of "Paradise Lost." He was the posthumous son of a 
London stationer ; entered Cambridge University, and 
at the age of fifteen published a volume of poems, show- 
ing marvellous precocity. During the Civil War he was 
ejected from Cambridge, and went to Oxford. In lfrt6 
he went with the Queen to Paris, and was active in man- 
aging the cipher correspondence between King Charles 
and his wife. In 1647 appeared Cowley's love poems, 
under the title of " The Mistress." They are pure 
works of imagination. He never married; and it is said 
that although he was once, and only once, in love, he 
was too shy to tell his passion. He had "the modesty 
of a man of genius and the humility of a Christian." In 
his style he belongs to the metaphvsical school, of wliieh 
Doune was the founder: its chief characteristic being 
tlie atfeetation of remote and uncommon imagery and 
obscure conceits, often drawn from scientific sources, 
and attenuated to e.^haustion. His praise of Brutus in 
one of his odes lost him the favor of Charles II. His 
"Davideis" is an unfinished epic in four books, writ- 
ten while he was at Cambridge. He died in his forty- 
ninth year, and was interred with great pomp in West- 
] minster Abbey, between Chaucer and Spenser. No poet 
of his day was more popular than Cowley, though he 
is now but little read. 


Here, take my likeness with you, whilst 'tis so; 

For when from heuee you go, 

The next sun's rising •will behold 

Me pale, and lean, and old. 

The man who did this picture draw 

Will swear next day my face he never saw. 

I really believe, ■within a while, 

If you upon this shadow smile. 

Your presence ■n'ill such vigor give 

(Yonr presence ■ndiicli makes all things live!) 

And absence so much alter me, 

This will the substance, I the shadow be. 

When from yonr well-wrought cabinet yon take it, 

And your bright looks awake it, 

Ah, be not frighted if you see 

The new-sonled jiictnre gaze on thee, 

,\nd hear it breathe a sigh or two ; 

For those are the first things that it will do. 



My rival-image will be tlieu tboiijjUt blust, 

Ami langli at me as dispossest ; 

But thou, who (if I Icuow tliee light) 

I'th' substance dost not much dcliglit, 

Wilt rather send again for nie, 

Wlio then sliall but my picture's picture be. 


What shall I do to bo forever known, 

And make the ago to come my own ? 
I shall, like beasts or couinion people, die, 

Unless you write my elegy ; 
Whilst others great, by being born, are grown ; 

Their mothers' labor, not their own. 
lu this scale gold, iu th' otlier fame does lie. 

The weight of that mouuts this so high. 
These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; 

Brought forth with their own fire and light : 
If I, her vulgar stone, for either look. 

Out of myself it must be strook. 
Yet I must on. What sound is't strikes mine ear? 

Sure I Fame's trumpet hear ; 
It sounds like the last trumpet ; for it can 

Raise up the buried man. 
Uupast Alps stop me ; but I'll cut them all. 

And march, the Muses' Haunil)al. 
Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay 

Nets of roses iu the way ! 
Hence, the desire of honors or estate, 

And all that is not above Fate ! 
Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days. 

Which intercepts my coming praise. 
Come, my best friends, my books, and lead nie on ; 

'Tis time that I were gone. 
Welcome, great Stagyrite!" and teach me now 

All I was born to know ; 
Thy scholar's victories thou dost far outdo ; 

He conquered th' earth, the whole world you. 
Welcome, learu'd Cicero ! whose blest tongue and 

Preserves Rome's greatness yet : 
Thou art the first of orators ; only he 

Who best can praise thee next must be. 
Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise! 

Whose verse walks highest, but not flies ; 
Wlio brought green Poesy to her perfect age. 

And made that art which was a rage. 

1 Aristotle wns btirn nt Stngyrn, in Mncedonin, near the 
mnuih nf the Strymou. lie was the iustrnctor of Alexandei- 
Ihc Oreiit. 

Tell me, ye mighty Tliree! what shall I do 

To be like one of you ? 
But you have climbed tlie mountain's top, there sit 

On the calm flourishing head of it. 
And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go, 

See us, and clouds, below. 

Paraphrase from Martial, Book X. 

Since, dearest friend, 'tis your desire to see 
A true receipt of happiness from me, 
These are the chief ingredients, if not all : 
Take an estate ueither too great nor small, 
Which quantum siiffidt the doctors call ; 
Let this estate from parents' care descend, 
The getting it too much of life does spend. 
T.ake such a ground, whose gratitude may be 
A fair encouragement for industry; 
Let constant fires the winter's fury tame. 
And let thy kitchen's be a vestal flame : 
Tliee to the town let never suit at law, 
And rarely, very larely, business draw ; 
Tliy active mind iu equal temper keep. 
In undisturb6d peace, yet not in .sleep : 
Let exercise a vigorous health maititain. 
Without which all the composition's vain. 
In the same weight prudence and iunocence taki\ 
Ana of each does the just mixture make. 
But a few friendships wear, and let them be 
By nature and by fortune fit for thee ; 
Instead of art .and luxury iu food, 
Let mirth aud freedom make thy table good. 
If auy cares into thy daytime creep. 
At night, without witie's opium, let them sleep ; 
Let rest, which Nature does to darkness wed, 
Aud not lust, recotnmend to thee thy bed. 
Be satisfied, aud pleased with what thou art, 
Act cheerfully aud well th' allotted part. 
Enjoy the iiresent hour, be thankful for the past, 
Atid neither fear, nor wish, the approaches of tlie 


Mark swift arrow, how it cuts the air. 

How it outruns thy following eye ! 

Use all persuasious now, and try 
If thoti canst call it b.ack or stay it there, 

That w.ay it went ; but thou sbalt find 

No track is left behind. 



Fool! 'tis tby lift?, ami tbo fond arcbei- tliou ; 

Of nil the tiiiio thou 'st shot away, 

I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday, 
And it shall bo too hnid a task to do. 

Besides repentance, what caust find 

That it hath left behind ? 

Oni- life is carried with too strong a tide; 

A doubtful cloud our substance bears, 

And is the horse of all our years : 
Each day doth on a wiug<5d whirlwind ride. 

We and our glass run out, and must 

Both reuder up our dust. 

But his past life who without grief cau see. 
Who never thinlis bis end too near. 
But says to Fame, thou art mine heir, — 

That man extends life's natural brevity 

To outlive Nestor in a day. 


Poet aud Saint ! to thee alone are given 
The two most sacred names of earth and heaven ; 
The hard and rarest uuiou which can be. 
Next that of Godhead -with humanity. 
Long did the Muses, banished slaves, abide, 
And built vaiu pyramids to mortal jiride ; 
Like Moses thou (tbo' spells aud charms with- 
Hast brought them nobly home, back to their 

Holy Land. 
Ah, wretched we! poets of earth! but thou 
Wert living the same i)oet which thou'rt now. 
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine. 
And joy in an applause so great as thiue, 
Equal society with them to hold. 
Thou ueed'st not make new songs, but say the old : 
Aud they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see 
How little less than they exalted nuiu may be. 


This only grant me, that my means may lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honor I would have, 
Not from great deeds, but good alone ; 
The unknown are bettor than ill known ; 

Rumor cau ope the grave. 
Acquaintauce I would have, but when 't depends 
Not on the uumber, but the choice, of friends. 

Books should, not business, entertain the light. 
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. 

My house a cottage more 
Thau palace ; and should litting be 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 
With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy iu his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life's fadiug space; 
For he that ruus it well twice runs his race. 

Aud iu this true delight, 
Tliese uubought sports, this happy state, 
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ; 

But boldly say, each night. 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display. 
Or in clouds bide tbeni ; I have lived to-day. 

^ubrcui iUarncll. 

The friend of Milton, anil his assistant in the Latin 
Secretaryship, Marvell (10:20-1078) w:is born in Lincoln- 
shire, .nnd educated at Cambridge. His education was 
superior. He wrote both poetry and prose, and was 
Member of Parliament for Hull. A man of inflexible in- 
tegrity, he was a strenuous foe of the Roman Catholic 
religion, and as a political pamphleteer toolc a high rank. 
Repeatedly threatened with assassination, he died sud- 
denly—from the eftucts of poison, it was beliored. There 
is a vein of elegance and pathos in his poems, and they 
reveal the genuine, high -hearted thinker. His Latin 
jioeuis are his best. Tlie familiar poem, " The Spacious 
Firmament on High," is confidently attributed by many 
to Marvell. That he was equal to it is evident; but the 
proofs are iusufiieient to authorize us to take from Ad- 
dison what has so long been ascribed to him. The sim- 
plicity and directness of the style are Addisonian rather 
than Marvellian. The piece first appeared anonymously 
in the Spectalor, edited by Addison. The Spectator was 
begun in ITU, and Marvell died iu 1678. If the piece 
was fi-om his pen, wliat good reason was there, after ids 
death, for withholding his name ? It was in no spirit of 
boasting that, in a letter to one of his correspondents, 
Marvell wrote : 

" Disce, pner, viitiUeni ex me, vcrumqtie laboreni ; 
Ftirtuuam ex .aliis." 


Where the remote Bermudas ride 
Iu the ocean's bosom uuespied, 

' Eniifrrants snppofed tn be driven to expatiiate theniselve.i 
by the j^overument of Cliarles I. 



Fioni a small boat that rowed along 
The listeiiiug wiuils received tliis song : 
"What shonlil wo do but sing liis praisu 
That led iis through the watery maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder tliau our own ? 
Where lie the huge sea-uionsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
Hu lands us on a grassy stage 
Safe from the storms aud prelate's rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels everytliing, 
And scuds the fowls to us iu care 
Ou daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the oraugo bright, 
Like golden lamps in a green night. 
And docs in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormns shows. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
Aud throws the melons at our feet, 
But apples plants of such a i)rice 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars chosen by his hand 
From Lebanon, he stores the land, 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon onr coast, 
And in tliese rocks for us did frame 
A temiile where to sound his name. 
Oh, let onr voice his praise exalt 
'Til it arrive at heaven's vault, 
Whicli, then, perhaps, rebounding, may 
Eclio beyond the Mexiqne Bay." 

Thus snug they, in the English boat, 
A holy aud a cheerful note. 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars tliey kept the time. 



Courage, my soul ! now learn to wield 
The weight of thine immortal shield ; 
Close ou thy head thy helmet bright; 
Balance thy sword against the fight ; 
See where an army, strong as fair, 
Willi silken banners spread the air! 
Now, if thou bc'st that thing divine, 
Iu this day's combat let it shine. 

Aud show that nature wants an art 
To couquer one resolved heart. 

Pleasure. Welcome, the creation's guest, 

Lord of earth, and heaven's heir! 
Lay aside that warlike crest, 
And of nature's banquet share, 
Where the souls of fruits and flowers 
Stand prepared to heighten yours. 

Sou}. I sup above, and cannot st.ay 
To bait so long upon the way. 

Vhnsiire. On these down}' pillows Ho, 

Whose soft pinnies will thither fly ; 
On these roses, strewed so plain 
Lest one leaf thy side should straiu. 

SonJ. My gentler rest is ou a thought. 
Conscious of doing what I ought. 

Plmsiux: If thou bc'st with perfumes pleased 
Such as oft the gods rppeased, 
Thou iu fragrant clouds shalt show- 
Like another god below. 

Soul. A soul that knows not to iiresnme 
Is Heaven's and its own perfume. 

Phasuir. Everything does seem to vie 

Wliich should first attract thine eye; 
But since none deserves that grace, 
In this crystal view thy face. 

Soul. When the Creator's skill is prized, 
The rest is all but earth disguised. 

Pleasure. Hark how uiusic then prepares 

For thy stay these charming airs. 
Which the posting winds recall, 
Aud suspend the river's fall. 

Soul. Had I but any time to lose, 

Ou this I would it all dispose. 

Cease, tempter! None can chain a mind. 

Whom this sweet cordage cannot bind. 

Earth cannot show so brave a sight, 
As when a single soul does fence 
The battery of alluring Sense, 
And Heaven views it with delight. 
Then persevere ! for still new charges sound : 
.'Vnd if tlion ovcrcom'st thou shalt be crowned I 

Pleasure. All that's costly fair and sweet 
Which scatteriugly doth shine. 
Shall within one beauty meet, 
And she be only thine. 
Soul. If things of sight such heavens be, 

What heavens are those we cannot see ! 
Pleisure. Wheresoe'er thy foot shall go 
The minted gold shall lie, 




Till thou inu'cliaso all lielow, 

Aud waut uew worlds to hay. 
Were't not for price who'd value gold ? 
Aud that's worth naught that can be sold. 
Pleasure. Wilt thou all the glory have 

That war or peace commend? 
Half the world shall bo thj' slave, 

The other half thy friend. 
Soul. What friends, if to myself untrue? 
What slaves, unless I captive you ? 
Pleasure. Thou shalt know each hidden cause 

Aud see the future time, 
Try what depth the centre draws, 

And then to heaven climb. 
None thither mounts by the degree 
Of knowledge, but humility. 

Triumph, triumph, victorious soul .' 
The world has not one pleasure more : 

The rest doth lie beyond the jiolc, 
Aud is thiue everlasting store. 



Translated from the Latin of Marvell. 

See how the orient dew. 

Shed from the bosom of the morn 

Into the blowing roses, 
(Yet careless of its mansion new. 
For the clear region where 'twas born), 

Round in itself iucloses; 
And in its little globe's extent 
Frames .as it can, its native element. 

How it the purple flower does slight, 
Scarce touching where it lies ; 
But, gazing back upon the skies. 

Shines with a mournful light, 
Like its own tear. 

Because so long divided from the sphere. 
Restless it rolls and unsecurc, 
Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 
Till the warm sun pities its pain, 
And to the skies exh.ales it back again. 
So the soul, that drop, that ray, 
Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 

Could it withiu the human flower bo seen, 
Remembering still its former height, 

Shuus the sweet leaves and blossoms green ; 
And, recollecting its own light, 
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express 
The greater heaven in a heaven less. 

In how coy a figure wound, 
Every way it turns away ; 

So the world excluding round. 
Yet receiving in the day; 

Dark beneath, but bright above ; 

Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go ; 

How girt aud ready to ascend ; , 

Moving but on a point below, "■ 

It all about does upwards bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, 
White and entire, although congealed and chill ; 
Congealed on earth ; but does, dissolving, run 
Into the glories of the almighty sun. 


How vainly men themselves amaze, 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays ; 
Aud their incessant labors see 
Crowned from single herb, or tree. 
Whoso short and narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid; 
While all the flowers and trees do close, 
To weave the garlands of repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men : 
Your sacred plants, if here below. 
Only among the plants will grow : 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 

So amorous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 

Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 

Little, alas ! they know or heed. 

How far these beauties her exceed ! 

Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. 

No name shall but your own be found. 

' This poem is printed as a tr.iushition in Marvell's works ; 
l)ut the original Latin is obviously his own. Here is a speci- 
men ofit : 

*'Alnia Qtiies, teneo tc! et te g:ermana Quietis 
Simplicitas ! vos erj;:o din per templa, per urbes 
Quffisivi, regnm perque alta palatia frnstra: 
Sed vos hortoruni per opaca silentia, lon^e 
Celarunt plantos virides, et concolor umbra." 



When we have ruu our passion's heat 
Love hither makes his best retreat : 
The gods who mortal beauty chase, 
Still ill a tree did end their race : 
Apollo huuted Daphne so 
Only that she might laurel grow : 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
Eipe apples drop about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the viue 
Upon my mouth do crush their wino ; 
The nectarine, and curious peach, 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass. 
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

3Ieanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 

Withdraws into its happiness : 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these. 

Far other worlds and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that's made 

To a green thought in a gieen shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 
Casting the body's vest aside, 
My soul into the boughs does glide : 
There, lilic a bird, it sits and sings, 
Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
And, till prepared for longer flight, 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Siicli was that happy garden-state, 
While man there wallied without a mate ; 
After a place so iiuie and sweet. 
What other help could yet be meet ! 
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there : 
Two paradises are in one, 
To live ill paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew. 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! 
When!, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
And, as it works, the industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers! 

<Ll)omas Stanlcj). 

Stanley (1635-lCTS) edited ^schylus, wrote a credita- 
ble "History of Philosophy," and, in 1651, published a 
volume of verse. He was educated at O.xl'ord, aud spent 
part of Ills youth in travelling. His poems, though de- 
formed by the conceits fashionable at the time, give 
signs of a rich and genuine poetical vein. 


Though when I loved thee thou wert fair 

Thou art no longer so ; 
Those glories, all the pride they wear. 

Unto opinion owe : 
Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shiue, 
Aud 'twas my love that gave thee thine. 

The flames that dwelt within thine eye 

Do now with mine expire ; 
Thy brightest gr.aces fade aud die 

At once with my desire. 
Love's fires thus mutual influence return ; 
Thine cease to shiue when mine to burn. 

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more 

To be implored or wooed ; 
Since by thy scorn thou dost restore 

The wealth my love bestowed ; 
And thy despised disdain too late shall find 
That none are fair but who are kind. 

Cljarlcs Olotton. 

The friend of good old Izaak Walton, Cotton (1030- 
1G87) was a cheerful, witty, aud accomplished mau, but 
improvident in worldly matters. His fithcr, Sir George, 
left him the encumbered estate of Ashbourne, in Derby- 
shire, near the river Dove. Cotton was thenceforth al- 
ways in money difliculties, and died insolvent. To get 
money, he translated several works from the French and 
Italian, and among them Montaigne's Essays. He made 
a disci-editable travesty of Virgil, remarkable only for its 
obscenity. But some of his verses show a genuine vein. 



WORTHY Friend, Mr. Izaak Walton." 

There are no ills but what we make 
By giving shapes and names to things ; 

Which is the dangerous mistake 
That causes all our suflerings. 



O fruitful grief, the woiUVs disease ! 

Aud vainer man, to nialie it so, 
Wlio gives liis miseries increase, 

By cultivating liis own ivoe ! 

We call that sickness which is health. 

That persecntiou -which is grace. 
That poverty which is trne wealth. 

And that dishonor which is praise. 
Alas ! onr time is hero so short, 

That in what state soe'er 'tis spent, 
Of joy or woe, does not import. 

Provided it be innocent. 

But we may make it jileasant too, 

If we will take our measures right, 
And not what Heaven has done undo 

By an unruly appetite. 
The world is full of beaten roads, 

But yet so slippery withal. 
That where one walks secure 'tis odds 

A hundred and a hundred fall. 

Untrodden paths are then the best. 

Where the frequented are unsure ; 
And he comes soonest to his rest 

Whose journey has been most secure. 
It is coutent aloue that makes 

Onr pilgrimage a pleasure here ; 
And who buys sorrow cheapest takes 

An ill commoditj' too dear. 

3oI)n Dvjilicn. 

One of tlie most celebrated of English poets, Dryden 
(1031-1700) was born in Northamptonshire, of Puritan 
parents. He received his school education at Westmiu- 
ster, under Dr. Busby, of birchen memory ; his college 
education, at Cambridge. Wlicn Cromwell died, he wrote 
laudatory stanzas to his memory; but this did not pre- 
vent his greeting Cliarles II., at his restoration, with a 
salutatory poem, entitled "Astraja Redux." Uryden's 
veerings in religion, politics, criticism, and taste exhibit 
a mind inuler the dominion of impulse. His marriage, 
which took place in 1665, was not a happy one, though 
he seems to have been warmly susceptible of domestic 
;itt'ection. In 1668 be succeeded Sir William Davenaut 
;i!. poet -laureate. For many years he had supported 
himself by writing for the stage. He wrote some twen- 
ty-eight plays. His tragedies are stilted and inctfective; 
while Ids comedies are execr.ably impure and licentious, 
and not to be palliated even by the laxity of tliat cor- 
rupt and shameless age. He lacked some of the great- 
est elements of poetic genius, and in moral earnestness 
was sadly deficient. His "Annus Mirabilis" is a poem 

on the great Arc. His "Absalom and Acliitopliel" is re- 
garded as one of the most powerful of modern satires. 
His "Keligio Laici" exhibits the poet convulsed with 
religious doubts. 

After tlie death of Charles II. Dryden became a Roman 
Catholic, had his children brought up in that faith, and 
lived and died in it. Macaulay calls him an "illustrious 
renegade." Scott takes a less uncliaritable view of his 
motives. When William and Mary ascended Mie throne 
Dryden lost his laureateship, and thenceforth became a 
bookseller's hack. For translating Virgil into Englisli 
verse he received £1200; for his "Fables," about £2.50. 
After a life of literary toil, productive of many splendid 
works, but dishonored by some winch it were well for 
Ills memory if they could be annilulated, Dryden let fall 
his pen. He died at sixty-eight, and his body was buried 
in Westminster Abbey. In terms of extreme exaggera- 
tion, .lohuson sa)-s of him that "he found the English 
language brick, and left it marble." 

Dryden was sixty- six years old when he wrote his 
"Alexander's Feast," one of the finest lyrics in all lit- 
erature. "I am glad," he wrote to bis publisher, "to 
hear from all hands that my Ode is esteemed the best 
of all my poetry by all the town. I thouglit so myself 
when I writ it; but being old, I mistrusted my own 
judgment." Let it be added in Dryden's behalf that he 
had the grace to submit with meekness to Collier's se- 
vere criticism of the moral defects of his plays. Un- 
doubtedly, the recollection of tbem caused him many 
bitter regrets. His prose style is excellent. " In his 
satire," says Seott, "his arrow is always drawn to the 
bead, and files directly and mercilessly to his object.'' 



St. Cecilia, n Roman I.<idy born about a.d. 29.5, aud bred iu the 
Christiau faith, was married to a Pa^'au nobleman, Vnlerianns. 
Slie told her husband that she was vir^ited uigluly by au angel, 
wiiom he was allowed to see after his own couversion. They 
botli suffered martyrdom. The aiigel by whom Cecilia was 
visited is referred to iu the closing liues of Drydeu's "Ode,"' 
coupled with a tradition that he had been diawn down to her 
from heaven by her melodies. In the earliest traditions of 
Cecilia there is no mention of skill in music. The great Italian 
painters fixed her position as its patron saint by representing 
her always with symbols of harmony— a harp or organ-pipes. 
Then came the suggestion adopted in Drydeu's "Ode," th it 
the organ was invented by St. Cecilia. The practice of holdi-.ig 
Musical Festivals on Cecilia's D.ay (the 22d of November) be- 
gan to prevail in England at the close of the 17th century. 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike sou ; 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne : 
His valiaut peers were placed around ; 
Their l)rows with roses and with myrtles bound, 
(So should desert iu arms be crowned): 



The lovely Thais, b.v his side, 
.Sate, like a blooniiug Eastern bride, 
111 flower of youth aud beauty's pride. 

Happy, happ}-, happy pair ! 

Nouo but the brave, 

Xoiie but the brave, 

Xoue but the brave deserves the fair. 


Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave. 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Timothous, placed ou high 
Amid the tuueful quire. 
With flying fiugers touched the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavculj' joys inspire. 
The song began from Jovo, 
^Vll0 left his blissful seats above, 
Such is the power of mighty love. 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god, 
Sublime ou radiant spires he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia pressed, 
Aud Tvhile he sought her snowy breast : 
Then round her slender waist ho curled, 
Aud stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of 

the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound : 
'•A present deity!" they shout around: 
'•A present deity!" the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears; 
Assumes the god, 
Aflects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 


With ravished ears 
The mouarch hears; 
Assumes the god, 
Aflects to nod, 
Aud seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus thcu the sweet Musician 
Of Bacchus ever fair aud ever young: 
The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
Sound the trumpets; beat the drums! 

Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face. 
Now give the hautboys breath : he comes, he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair aud young, 

Drinking joys did first ordain : 
Bacchus' blessings' are a treasiu-e, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
Uich the treasure. 
Sweet the iileasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 


Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 

Eich the treasure. 

Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 


Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again : 
And thrice he routed all his foes, aud thrice he 
slew the slain. 
The Master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And, while he lieaven and earth defied, 
Chauged bis hand and checked his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius great aud good. 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 
Fallen from his high estate. 

And weltering in his blood ; 
Deserted, at his utmost need. 
By those his former bounty fed. 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below; 
Aud now aud then a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 


Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below ; 

And now and then a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty Master smiled to see 
That love was iu the next degree ; 



"fwas but a kiiidroil soiiud to move, 
For I'ity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydiaii measures, 
Soon be soothed his soul to jilcasurcs. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
Honor but an empty bubble ; 

Never euding, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying; 

If the -n-orld be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh think it worth enjoying : 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 
Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
So Love was crowned : but Music won the cause. 
The prince, uuablo to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
Sighed aud looked, and sighed again : 
Xi length, with love and wine at once oppressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon lier breast. 

Tlie prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Giized on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
And siglied aud looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again : 
At length, with love aud wine at ouce oppressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Xow strike the golden lyre again : 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bauds of sleep asunder. 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thuudcr. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up liis head : 
As awaked from the dead, 
And amazed, he stares around. 
"Revenge! revenge!" Timothens cries: 
See the Furies arise ; 
See the snakes that tlicy rear. 
How they hiss in their hair. 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
Behold a ghastly band. 
Each a torch in his hand: 
Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were 

And iniburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain : 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 

Behold how they toss their torches on high! 

How they point to the Persian abodes, 
Aud glittering temples of their hostile gods! 
The in-inces applaud with a furious joy ; 
Aud the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 

Thais led the way. 

To light him to his prey, 
Aud, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 

.\ud the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 

Thais led the way. 

To light him to his prey, 
Aud, like another Helen, lired another Troy. 

Thus long ago. 
Ere heaving bellows learued to blow. 
While orgaus yet were uuite ; 
Timothens, to his breathing flute, 
And sounding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last diviue Cecilia came, 
luveutress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
And added length to solemn sounds. 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts uuknow'u before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the jirize. 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
She drew an angel down. 


At last divine Cecilia came, 

luveutress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 

Enlarged the former narrow Ijounds, 

Aud added length to solemn sounds, 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 


Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
The world's foundations first were laid, 
Come, visit every pious mind ; 
Come, pour thy joys on humankind ; 



From sill aud sorrow set us free, 
Aud make thy temples worthy thee. 

O source of uncreated light, 
The Father's promised Paraclete! 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
Onr hearts with heavenly love inspire ; 
Come, and thy sacred unction Ijriug, 
To sauctify ns while wo siug. 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 
Ivich in thy sevenfold energy! 
Thou strength of his Almighty hand, 
Whoso power does heaven and earth command ; 
Proceeding Spirit, onr defence. 
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, 
And crowii'st thy gifts with eloquence ! 

Refine and purge our earthly ])arts ; 
But, oh inflame aud fiie our hearts ! 
Our frailties help, onr vice control, 
Submit the seuses to the soul ; 
And when rebellious they are grown. 
Then lay thine hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
And peace, the frnit of love, bestow ; 
And, lest our feet should step astray, 
Protect aud guide us in the way. 

Make ns eternal truths receive. 
And practise all that we believe : 
Give ns thyself, that we may see 
The Father, and the Son, by thee. 

Immortal honor, endless fame. 
Attend the Almighty Father's name ! 
The Saviour Son be glorified. 
Who for lost man's redemption died ! 
And equal adoration be. 
Eternal Paraclete, to thee ! 


Fro:*! *' Absalom and Acihtophel." 

Of these the false Achitophcl was finst — 
A name to all succeeding ages curst : 
For close designs and crooked counsels fit. 
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit ; 
Restless, unfixed in principles and place ; 
In power nupleascd, impatient of disgrace ; 
A fiery soul which, working out its way. 
Fretted the pigmy body to decay. 
And o'er informed its tenement of clay : 
A daring pilot in extremity. 

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went 

He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit. 
Would steer too uigh the sands to boast his wit. 
Great wits are sure to madness near allied, 
Aud thiu partitions do their bounds divide : 
Else, why should he, with wealth and honors blest, 
Refuse Lis age the needful hours of rest ? 
Punish a body which he could not idease. 
Bankrupt of life, yet jirodigal of ease ? 
Aud all to leave what with his toil he won 
To that unfeathered, two-legged thing, a son! 


Frosi "Absalom and AcniToriiEL.'" 

Some of their chiefs were princes of the land ; 

In the first rank of these did Zimri staud, 

A man so various that he seemed to bo 

Not one, but all maukiud's epitome; 

Stiff iu opinions, always in the wrong, 

Was everything by starts, and nothing long; 

But, in the course of one revolving moon, 

Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; 

Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking. 

Besides ten thousand freaks that died iu tliinkiug. 

Blest madman ! who conld every hour employ 

With something new to wish or to enjoy. 

Railing aud praising were his usual themes, 

And both, to show his judgment, iu extremes ; 

So over-violent or ovei-civil, 

That every man with him was god or devil. 

In squandering wealth was his iicculiar art, — 

Nothing went unrewarded but desert ; 

Beggared by fools whom still ho found too late, 

He had his jest, and they had his estate. 

He laughed himself from court, then sought relief 

By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief; 

For, spite of him, the weight of business fell 

On Absalom and wise Achitophel : — ■ 

Thus, Mieked but in will, of means bereft. 

He left not faction, but of that was left. 



Enjoy the present smiling hour, 
And put it out of Fortune's power: 
The tide of business, like the running stream. 
Is sometimes high, aud sometimes low, 

And always in extreme. 
Now with a noiseless, gentle course 



It keeps Tvitbin the middle bed ; 
Anon it lifts aloft the head, 
And bears down all before It with impetuous force; 
And trunks of trees couie rolling down ; 
Sheep aud their folds together drown ; 
Both house aud homestead into seas are borne ; 
And rocks are from their old foundations torn : 
And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered 
honors mourn. 

Happy the man, and happy he alone, 

He who can call to-day his own ; 

He who, secure within, can say. 
To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day ! 

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine ; 
The joys 1 have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine! 

Not heaven itself upon tlio past has power; 
But what has been, has been, and I have had my 

Fortune, that with malicious joy 

Does man, her slave, ojipress. 
Proud of her office to destroy. 

Is seldom pleased to bless : 
Still various, and inconstant still. 
But with an inclination to be ill, 

Promotes, degrades, doliglits in strife, 

Aud makes a lottery of life. 
I can enjoy her while she's kind ; 
But when she dances in tlio wind. 

And shakes the wings, and will not stay, 

I pufl' the prostitute away ! 
The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned : 

Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. 

What is't to me, 
Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, 

If storms arise, and clouds grow black. 
If the mast split aud threaten wreck? 
Then let the greedy merchant fear 

For his ill-gotten gain. 
And pray to gods that will not hear, 
Wliile the debating winds aud billows bear 

His wealth into the main. 
For me, secure from Fortune's blows, 
Secure of what I cannot lose. 
In my small pinnace I can sail. 

Contemning all the blustering roar ; 
Aud, running with a merry gale. 
With friendly stars my safety seek 
Within some little winding creek, 

And see the storm ashore. 

Katljarinc JiJIjillips. 

Daughter of Mr. John Fowler, a London merchant, 
Katharine rhilli|is (1631-1664) showed genuine poetical 
taste and ability. Slie was a friend of Jeremy Taylor, 
who addressed to her a "Discourse on Friendsliip." 
She wrote under the name of Orinda, was praised by 
Roscommon and Cowley, and had the friendshicp of many 
of the eminent authors of her day. She tra'lislated two 
of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a volume of letters, 
which was published after her death. Her poems were 
very popular in her lifetime, hut their lame has been 


I have examined, and do find, 

Of all that favor me, 
There's none I grieve to leave behind 

But only, only thee ! 
To part with thee I needs must die, 
Could parting separate for aye. 

Our clianged and mingled souls are grown 

To such acquaintance now. 
That if each would resume her own, 

(Alas! we know not how!) 
We have each other so engrossed 
That each is in the union lost. 
# # # if * »■ 

By my own temper I .shall guess 

At thy felicity, 
Aud only like my happiness 

Because it pleaseth thee : 
Our hearts at any time will tell 
If thou or I be sick or well. 

Thy lieger soul in me shall lie. 

And all my thoughts reveal ; 
Then back again with mine shall fly, 

And thence to me shall steal, — 
Thus still to one another tend : 
Such is the sacred tie of friend ! 


Religion which true policy befriends. 
Designed by God to servo man's holiest ends, 
Is by the old Deceiver's subtle play 
Made the chief party in its own decay. 
And meets that eagle's destiny whose breast 
Felt tbe same shaft which his own feathers drest. 



Qrarl of Uoscommon. 

Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon (1034-1085), 
was the nephew of the great Earl of Strafford, after 
whose fall on the scaffold he was sent to Caen to pursue 
his studies. While there he succeeded to the title of 
Roscommon. Aubrey tells a story that tlie youth had a 
presentiment of his father's death, and exclaimed, "My 
father is dead I" one day while he was engaged with 
some boys at play, at least a fortuight before the intelli- 
gence ari'ivcd from Ireland. Roscommon's chief work is 
called "An Essay on Translated Verse;" lie also trans- 
lated Horace's " Art of Poetry," and wrote minor poems. 
Just before he died he uttered two lines of his own para- 
phrase of Thomas de Celano's "Dies Ira>:" 

" My God, my Father, aud my Fi-icud, 
Do not forsake me iu my eud ;" 

His mortal remains were interred with great pomp iu 
Westminster Abbey. To his lionor let it be said that he 
well deserved this tribute from Pope : 

"Uuhnppy Dryden ! Iu all Charleses days, 
Koscommon ouly boasts uuspotted l.^ys." 

Living in the foul times of the second Charles, he re- 
fused to soil his pages with the ribaldry and grossness 
which the popular taste seemed theu to demuud. He 
wrote this couplet: 

"Immodest words admit of no defeuce, 
For want of decency is want of sense." 

Benjamin Franklin, in no hypercritical spirit, suggested 
not a bad amendment of the couplet, thus: 

"Immodest words admit but this defence: 
Tliat want of decency is want of sense." 


I pity, from my soul, unhappy men 
Compelled by want to pro.stitute tlieir iicn ; 
Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, 
Aud follow, right or wrong, where gniueas lead. 

No poet any passion can excite 

But what they feel transport them w hen they w rite 

Have yon been led through the C'nnueau cave, 

And heard th' inipatieut maid divinely rave? 

I bear her now ; 1 see her rolling eyes ; 

And, panting, "Lo, the god, the god !" she cries: 

With words not hers, and more than liuman sound. 

She makes th' obedient ghosts peep, trembling, 

tlirough the ground, 
lint tliougli wo must obey when Heaven conunands. 
And man in vain the sacred call withstands, 
Beware what spirit rages iu your breast ; 
For ten inspired ten thousand are iiossest. 

Thus make the proper use of eacli extreme. 
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. 
As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, 
And sparkling wine smiles iu the tempting glass. 
Your pnlse advises, aud begins to beat 
Through every swelling vein a loud retreat : 
So when a Muse propitiously iuvites, 
Improve her favors, and indulge her flights ; 
But when yon find that vigorous beat abate, 
Leave off, and for another summons wait. 
Before the radiant sun a glimmering lamp, 
Adult'rate metals to the sterling stamp. 
Appear not meaner than mere human lines 
Compared with those whose inspiration sliiues : 
These nervous, bold ; those languid and remiss ; 
Tliere cold salutes, but hero a lover's kiss. 
Thus have 1 seen a rapid, headlong tide 
With foaming waves the passive Sa6ne divide. 
Whose lazy waters wifhont motion lay. 
While he with eager force urged his impetuous way. 

iiljoinas Ken. 

Ken (1037-1711) was educated at Oxford, became cliap- 
lain to Charles II., aud was one of the seven bishops sent 
to the Tower for resisting tlie tyranny of James II. A 
meeker aud a braver man thau Ken never lived. His 
hymns are still deservedly esteemed. He published an 
epic poem entitled "Edmund," and was the author of 
several approved devotional works. 


AU praise to thee, my God, this night, 
For all the blessings of the light ! 
Keep me, oU keep me. King of kings. 
Beneath thy own almighty wings ! 

* * * if * # 

Wlien iu the night I sleepless lie. 
My soul witli heavenly thoughts supply ; 
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest, 
No powers of darlvuess me nmlest. 

Dull sleep ! of sense me to deprive ! 
I am but half ray time alive; 
Thy faithful lovers. Lord, are grieved 
To lie so long of thee bereaved. 

But tho\igh sh'ep o'er my frailty reigns, 
Let it not hold me long iu chains ; 
And now aud then let loose my beart, 
Till it a Hallebijah dart. 



The faster sleep the senses binds, 
The more uufettered are our minds. 
Oh, may my soul, from matter free. 
Thy loveliness luiclouded see ! 

* 7i ^ ^ 5f # 

Oh, may my Guardian,' while I sleep, 
Close to my bed his vigils Ueeii ; 
His love angelical instil. 
Stop all the avenues of ill. 

May he celestial joys rehearse, 
Aud thought to thought with me converse ; 
Or, iu my stead, all the night long, 
Sing to ray God a grateful song. 

Praise God, from whom all blessiugs flow ; 
Praise him all creatures here below ; 
Praise him above, ye heavenly host ; 
Praise Father, Sou, aud Holy Ghost ! 

(iljoinas (DtiuaH. 

Tlie son of a clei-gyman, Otway (16.51-168.5) was born 
in Sussex. Leaving Cxforcl without a degree, he ap- 
peared on the stage in 16T2 as an actor, but failed. He 
then got a commission iu the army iu Flanders, but was 
cashiered. He wrote for the stage, and several of his 
pieces were quite successful ; but he was continually in 
the direst poverty, aud he is alleged by some to have 
died of voraciously eating a piece of bread after a long 
compulsory fast. His fame rests cUieflj' on liis "Ven- 
ice Preserved," in which there are passages of great dra- 
matic power. He wrote some miscellaneous poems, but 
tlieir merit is very Imnible. 


-VcT IV,, Scene II. 

Pierre. What whining monk art tlion ? what holy 
That wonldst encroach upon my credulous ears, 
Aiul cant'st thus vilely? Hence! I know thee not! 

Jiiff. Not know me, Pierre ! 

Pierre. No, know thee not! Wliat art thou? 

»Jaff. Jaffier, thy friend, thy once loved, valued 
friend ! 
Tho' now deservedly scorned aud used most hardly. 
Pierre. Thou Jaffier! thou my once loved, valued 
friend ! 
I!y heavens, thou liest ! The man so called my 

' is, my Giiardiau .^llgel. 

Was generous, honest, faithful, just, aud valiant ; 
Noblo iu mind, and iu his person lovely ; 
Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart : 
But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless coward, 
Poor eveu in soul, aud loathsome in thy aspect ! 
All eyes mnst shun thee, and all hearts detest thee. 
Prithee, avoid, no longer cling thus round me. 
Like something baneful, that my nature's ^hilled at. 

Jaff. I have not wronged thee ; by these tears, 
I have not. 

Pierre. Hast thou not wronged me ? Dar'st thou 
call thyself Jaffier, 
That once loved, valued friend of mine. 
And swear thou not w rouged mo ? Whence 

these chains ? 
Whence the vile death which I m.ay meet this' 

moment ? 
Whence this dishonor but from thee, thou false one? 

Jaff. All's true ; yet grant one thing, aud Pve 
done asking. 

Pierre. What's that? 

Jaff. To take thy life on snch conditions 
The council have proposed : thou and thy friends 
May yet live long, aud to be better treated. 

Pierre. Life! ask my life ! confess! record myself 
A villain for the privilege to breathe, 
Aud carry up and down this cursed city 
A discontented aud repining spirit. 
Burdensome to itself, a few years longer; 
To lose it, maybe, at last, in a lewd quarrel 
For some new friend, treachero\is and false as thnti 

No, this vile world aud I have long been jangling, 
Aud cannot part on better terms than now. 
When oulj- men like thee arc fit to live iu't. 

Jaff. By all that's just— 

Pierre. Swear by some other power, 
For thou bast broke that sacred oath already. 

Jaff. Then by that hell I merit, PU not leave thee 
Till to thyself at least thon'rt reconciled, 
However thy resentments deal with me. 

Pierre. Not leave me ! 

Jaff. No ; thou shalt not force me from thee. 
ITse me reproachfully aud like a slave ; 
Tread on me, bnffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs 
On my poor head : PU bear it .all with patience ; 
Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty ; 
Lie .at thy feet, and kiss them, thongh they spurn 

me ; 
Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent. 
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. 

Pierre. Art thou not — 

Jiiff. What ? 



Pierre. A traitor < 

Jaff. Yes. 

Pierre. A villaiu ? 

Jaff. Grauteil. 

Pierre. A coward, a most scandalous coward ; 
Spiritless, void of honor ; one who has sold 
Thy evei'lastiiig fame for shameless life ? 

Jaff. AJl, all, and more, much more ; my faults 
are numberless. 

Pierre. And wonldst thou have me live ou terms 
like thiue f 
Base as thou'rt false — 

Jaff. No. 'Tis to me that's grauted ; 
The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, 
In recompense for faith and trust so broken. 

Pierre. I scorn it more because preserved by thee ; 
And, as when first my foolish heart took pity 
Ou thy misfortune, sought thee iu thy miseries, 
Relieved thy wauts, and raised thee from the state 
Of wretchedness iu which thy fate had plnuged 

To rank thee in my of noble friends, 
All I received, iu surety for thy truth, 
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, 
Given with a worthless pledge thou siuce hast 

stolen ; 
So I restore it back to thee again, 
Swearing by all those powers which thou hast vio- 
Never, from this cursed hour, to hold communion, 
Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years 
Were to exceed those limited the world. 
Take it — farewell — for now I owe thee nothing. 

Jciff. Say thou wilt live, then. 

Pierre. For my life, dispose it 
Just as thou wilt ; because 'tis what I'm tired with. 

Jaff. O Pierre! 

Pierre. No more. 

Jaff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, 
But languish after thiue, and ache with gazing. 

Pierre. Leave me : — nay, then, thus I throw thee 
from me ; 
And curses great as is thv falsehood catch thee ! 

became rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury. Ilallam pro- 
nounces him " a writer of fine genius, and of a noble ele- 
vation of moral sentiments." 

3o\)n Norris. 

Alrarncd metaphysician and divine, Nori'is (10.57-1711) 
was a Platonist, and sympathized with tlie views of Hen- 
ry More. He published a " Philosophical Discourse con- 
cerning the Natural Immortality of the Soul;" an "Es- 
say toward the Theory of the Ideal or Unintelligible 
World;" "Miscellanies, consisting of Poems, Essays, 
Discourses, and Letters;" and other productions. He 


:, great God, low long 
Immured iu this dark prison lie, 
Where at the gates and avenues of sense 
My soul must watch to have intelligence ; 
Where but faint gleams of thee salute my sight, 
Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night ? 
Wheu shall I leave this magic sphere. 
And be all miud, all eye, all ear ? 

How cold this clime ! and yet my sense 
Perceives even here thy influence. 
Even here thy strong magnetic charms I feel. 
And pant and tremble like the amorous steel, — 
To lower good and beauties less divine 
Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline ; 
But yet (so strong the sympathy) 
It turns, and points again to thee. 

I long to see this excellence, 

Which at such distance strikes my sense. 
My impatient soul struggles to disengage 
Her wings from the coutineraent of her cage. 
Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free. 
How would she hasten to be linked with thee ! 

She'd for no angel's conduct stay, 

But tiy, and love on all the way. 


1 care not though it be 

By the preciser sort thought popery ; 

We poets can a show 

For everything we do: 
Hear, then, my little saint, I'll pray to thee. 

If now thy happy miud 

Amid its various joys can leisure fiud 

To attend to anything so low 

As what I say or do. 
Regard, and be what thou wast ever — kind. 

Let not the blessed above 

Engross theo quite, hut sometimes hither rove. 

Fain would I thy sweet image see, 

And sit and talk with thee ; 
Nor is it curiosity, but love. 



Ah! what tleliglit 'tvroiilil be 

Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse ■with 
me ! 

How should I thine sweet commune prize, 

And other joys despise ! 
Come, then ; I ne'er was yet denied by thee. 

I would not long detain 

Tliy sonl from bliss, nor keep theo here in pain ; 

Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know 

Of thy escape below : 
Before thou'rt missed thou shouldst return again. 

Sure, heaven must needs thy love 
As well as other qualities Improve ; 

Come, then, and recreate my sight 

With rays o$ thy pure light : 
'Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. 

I But if fate's so severe 

I As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere 

(And by thy absence I shall know 

Whether thy state be so), 
I Live happy, but be mindful of me there. 

fllattljctti J^Jvior. 

Of obscure parentage, Prior (1664-1731) owed his ad- 
vaucemeut in life to tlie friendslnp of the Earl of Dorset, 
through which he rose to be ambassador to tlic Court of 
Versailles. His best-known poems arc his light lyrical 
pieces of theartilicial school. Thackeray says, with some 
exaggeration, tliat they "arc among the easiest, the 
richest, the most cliarmingly humorous in the English 
language;" but Prior's poetical fame, considerable in 
his day, has waned, and not undeservedly. His longest 
work is the serious poem of "Solomon," highly com- 
mended by Wesley and Hannah More, but now having 
few readers. His "Henry and Emma," called by C'ow- 
per "an enchanting piece," is a paraphrase of "The 
Nut-brown Maide," and a formidable specimen of " verse 
bewigged" to suit the false taste of the day. Compared 
with the original it is like tinsel to rich gold In the ore. 
Like many men of letters of his da}'. Prior never vent- 
ured on matrimony. 


Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop 
Thy head into a tinman's shop ? 
There, Thomas, didst thou never see 
('Tis but by way of simile) 
A squirrel spend bis little rage. 
In jumping round a rolling cage ; 

The cage, as either side turned up. 
Striking a ring of bells at top? — 

Moved in the orb, jdeased with tlie chimes, 
The foolish creature thinks lie climbs: 
But, here or there, turn wood or wire, 
He never gets two inches higher. 

So fares it with those meri-y blades, 
That frisk it under Pindus' shades, , 
In noble song and lofty odes, ''^ 

They tread on stars, and talk with gods; 
Still dancing in au airy round, 
Still pleased with their own verses' sound ; 
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, 
Always aspiring, always low. 


Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band 
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters. 

Were summoned by her high command 
To show their passions by their letters. 

My pen among the rest I took. 

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 

Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
The power they have to be obeyed. 

Nor quality, nor reputation. 

Forbid me yet my flame to tell ; 
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, 

And I may write till she can spell. 

For while she makes her silk-worms' beds 
With all the tender things I swear, — 

Whilst all the house my passion reads 
In papers round her baby's hair, — 

She may receive and own my flame; 

For, though the strictest prndes should know it. 
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame. 

And I for an unhappy poet. 

Then, too, alas! when sho shall tear 
The lines some younger rival sends. 

She'll give me leave to write, I fear. 
And we shall still continue friends. 

For, as our different ages move, 

'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) 
That I shall be past making love 

When she begins to comprehend it. 



lionatljan Swift. 

Swift's is one of the great names in English litera- 
ture (1BG7-1745). A Dublin man by birth, his parents 
and his ancestors were English. He was educated at 
Kilkenny School and Trinity College, but did not dis- 
tiuguisli himself as a student. For some years he lived 
with Sir William Temple, with whom his mother was 
slightly connected. Here he ate the bitter bread of de- 
|iendence, and became restive and soured. Having grad- 
uated as M.A. at Oxford, he entered into holy orders, 
and became prebend of Kilroot, in Ireland, at flOO a 
year. Eetuniing to the house of Sir William Temple, 
he became involved in the mysterious love-afl'air witli 
Hester Johnson, daughter of Sir William's house-l<eeper 
(and believed to be his child), better known by Swift's 
pet name of Stdla. Having become Vicar of Laracor, 
Swift settled there, but with the feelings of an exile. 
Miss Johnson resided in tlie neighborhood, and in the 
parsonage during his absence. He is said to have ful- 
lillcd his clerical office in an exemplarj* manner. 

From 1700 till about 1710 Swift acted witli the Whig 
party. Dissatisfied witli some of their measures, he then 
became an active Tory, and exercised prodigious influ- 
ence as a political pamphleteer. From his new patrons 
he received the deanery of St. Patrick's, in Dublin. The 
coarseness of his " Tale of a Tub " had cut him off from 
a bishopric. "Swift now, much against his will," says 
Johnson, "commenced Irishman for life." He soon be- 
came an immense favorite with the Irish people. Few 
men have ever exercised over them so formidable a per- 
sonal inflncnee. In 1736 he visited England for the pub- 
lication of his "Travels of Gulliver." Here he had en- 
joyed the society of Pope (who was twenty years liis 
junior). Gay, Addison, Arbutlinot, and Bolingbroke. He 
returned to Ireland to lay tlie mortal remains of Stella 
in tlie grave : she is believed to have been his real though 
unacknowledged wife. Excuse for his conduct is found 
in his anticipations of the insanity which clouded his 
last days. After two years passed in letliargic and hope- 
less idiocy, he died in 174.5. His death was mourned by 
an enthusiastic people as a national loss. His fortune 
was bequeathed to found a lunatic asylum in Dublin. 

Swift's fame rests on his clear and powerful prose. 
He is a satirical versifier, but not in the proper accqita- 
tion of tlie term a poet. Dryden, whose aunt was tlie 
sister of Swift's grandfather, said to him, " Cousin Swift, 
you will never be a poet." And the prophecy proved 
true, though Swift resented it by a rancorous criticism 
on his illustrious relative. Swift's verses, however, 
made their mark in his day, and they are still interesting 
for the intellectual vigor, pungencj', and wit by which 
they arc distinguished. 


As Rocliefoncanlt lii.s maxims drew 
From nature, I believe tbcra tine : 

I This Fingnlar poem was prompted by the following maxim 
of Rdchefoiicnult: "Dans Tadvcrsitfi de iios meilleurs ami.-, 
nous troiivons loiijours qiielqne chose que ue nous di'plait pas." 

They argue no corriipteil mind 
In liim : the fault is in maukiud. 

This maxim more than all the rest 
Is thougbt too base for human breast : 
"In all distresses of our friends, 
We fir-st consult onr private ends ; 
While nature, kindly bent to ease us, 
Points out some circiimstauce to jilease ns." 

If this perhaps your paticuce move. 
Let reason and experience prove. 

We all behold with envious eyes 
Our equals raised above our size : 
W'lio would not at .a crowded show 
Staud high himself, keep others low ? 
I love my friend as well as you : 
But why should ho obstruct my view f 
Then let me have the liigher post ; 
Sujipose it but au inch at most. 
If ill a battle you should iind 
One, whom you love of all maukind, 
Had some heroic action done, 
A chanipioii killed, or trophy won ; 
Rather than thus be overtopt, 
Would you not wish his laurels cropt ? 
Dear honest Ned is iu the gout, 
Lies racked with paiu, and you without : 
How patiently you hear him groan ! 
How glad the case is not your own ! 

What poet would uot grieve to see 
His brother write as well as he ? 
But, rather than they should excel, 
Would wish bis rivals all in hell? 
Her cud, wheu emulation misses, 
She turns to envy, stings, and hisses: 
The strongest friendship yields to pride, 
Unless the odds be on our side. 
Vain human-kiud! fantastic race! 
Thy various follies who can trace ? 
Self-love, ambition, euvy, iiride, 
Their empire in our heart divide. 
Give others riches, power, and station, 
'Tis all to me an usurpation ! 
I have uo title to aspire. 
Yet, wheu you sink, I seem the higher. 
Iu Pope I cannot read a line. 
But with a sigh I wish it mine : — 
When ho can in one couplet fix 
More souse than I can do in six, 
It gives mo such a jealous fit, 
I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" 
I grieve to bo outdone by Gay 
In iny own humorous, biting way. 
Arbutlinot is no more my friend, 
Who dares to irony pretend. 



AVliicb I was bom to introduce, 

Eefiueil at first, and showed its use. 

St. Jobn, as well as Piilteney, kuows 

That I had some repute for prose ; 

And, till they drove me out of date, 

Could Diaul a minister of state. 

If they have mortified my pride, 

Aud made me throw my pen aside, — 

If with snch talents Heaveu hath blessed 'em, 

Have I not reason to detest 'em ? 

To all my foes, dear Fortuue, send 
Thy gifts ; but uever to my friend : 
I tamely can endure the first ; 
But this with envy makes me burst. 

Thus much may serve by way of proem ; 
Proceed we tlierefore with our poem. 

The time is not remote when I 
Must by tlie course of nature die ; 
When, I foresee, my special friends 
Will try to find their private ends : 
And, though 'tis hardly understood 
Which way my death can do them good, 
Yet thus, methiuks, I hear them speak : 
" See how the Dean begins to break I 
Poor gentleman, he droops apace! 
You plainly find it in his face. 
That old vertigo in his head 
Will never leave him till he's dead. 
Besides, his memory decays : 
Ho recollects not what he says ; 
He cannot call his friends to mind : 
Forgets the place where last he dined ; 
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; 
He told them fifty times before. 
How does he fancy we can sit 
To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? 
But he takes up with younger folks, 
Who for his wine will bear his jokes. 
Faith ! he must make his stories shorter, 
Or change his comrades ouce a quarter ; 
In half the time he talks them round, 
There must another set be found. 

" For jioetry he's past his prime ; 
He takes an hour to find a rhyme : 
His fire is out, his wit decayed. 
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. 
I'd have him throw away his iien ; 
But there's no talking to some men !" 

And then their tenderness appears 
By adding largely to my years: 
"He's older than he would be reckoned, 
Aud well remembers Charles the Second. 
He hardly drinks a pint of wine : 
And that, I doubt, is no good sign. 

His stomach, too, begins to fail ; 

Last year we thought him strong and hale ; 

But now bo's quite another thing : 

I wish he may hold out till spring !" 

They hng themselves, aud reason thus : 
"It is not yet so bad with us!" 

In such a case they talk in tropes, 
And by their fears express their hopee. 
Some great misfortune to portend. 
No enemy can match a friend. 
With all the kindness they profess, 
The merit of a lucky guess 
(When daily how-d'ye's come of course; 
And servants auswer, " Worse and worse !") 
Would please them better than to tell 
That, " God be praised, the Dean is well." 
Then he who prophesied the best, 
Approves his foresight to the rest : 
"You know I alw.ays feared the worst, 
And often told you so at first." 
He'd rather choose that I should die 
Thau his iiredictions prove a lie. 
Not one foretells I shall recover ; 
But all agree to give me ovei'. 

Yet should some neighbor feel a pain 
Just in the parts where I complain, — 
How many a message would he send! 
What hearty prayers that I should mend ! 
Inquire what regimen I kept ; 
What gave me ease, and how I .slept 1 
And more lament, when I was dead, 
Than all the snivellers round my bed. 

My good compauious, uever fear ; 
For, though you may mistake a year. 
Though your prognostics run too fast, 
Thev must be verified at last ! 


All travellers at first incline 

Where'er they see the fairest sign ; 

Will call again, and recommend 

The Angel Inn to every friend. 

What though the painting grows decayed, 

Tbe house will uever lose its trade ; 

Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas 

Hangs a new Augel two doors from us, • 

As fine as daubers' hands can make it. 

In hopes that strangers may mistake it. 

We think it both a shame and sin 

To quit the true old Angel Inn. 



Now tbis is Stella's case iu fact, 
Au augel's face a little cracked 
(Could poets or conld paiuters fix 
How angels look at tbirty-six) : 
Tliis drew us iu at first to find 
Iu such a form au angel's mind ; 
And every virtue now supplies 
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes. 
See at ber levee crowding swaius, 
,-Wlioip Stella freely entertains 
^ With breeding, bninor, wit, and sense. 
And jints tbcra to but small espeuse ; 
Tbeir mind so plentifully fills, 
Aud makes sucb reasonable bills. 
So little gets for what sbe gives, 
AVe really wonder bow she lives ; 
And, bad ber stock been less, uo doubt 
Sbe must have long ago run out. 

Then who Can think we'll quit the pliice. 
When Doll bangs out a newer face ? 
Or stop aud light at Cbloe's head, 
With scraps aud leavings to be fed ? 

Tlieu, Chloe, still go on to prate 
Of thirty-six aud thirty-eight ; 
Pursue your trade of soaudal-pickiug, 
Your hints that Stella is uo chicken ; 
Your inuueiuloes, when you tell us 
Tliat Stella loves to talk with fellows ; 
Aud let me warn yon to believe 
A truth, for which yonr soul should grieve ; 
That, should you live to see the day 
When Stella's locks must all be gray. 
When age must print a furrowed trace 
Oil every feature of her face ; 
Though you, and all your senseless tribe. 
Could art, or time, or nature bribe, 
To make you look like Beauty's Queen, 
And hold forever at fifteen ; 
No bloom of youth cau ever blind 
The cracks aud wrinkles of yonr mind : 
All men of sense will pass your door, 
Aud crowd to Stella's at fourscore. 

torals" as the finest iu the language. Piiilips won si>nie 
little success as a dramatic writer; but as he advanceil 
in life be seems to have forsaken the Muses : he becaun' 
a Member of Parliament, and died at the ripe age of scv 
enty-eight; surpassing, in longevity at least, most con- 
temporary poets. 

;?linbrosc yi)ilip£ 

The word namhij-pninb'j was introduced nito the lan- 
guage through its having been first applied to Ambrose 
Philips (1C71-1749) by Harry Carey, author of "Sally in 
our Alley," etc. Pope snatched at the nickname as 
suited to Philips's "eminence in the inlantile style;" so 
little did he appreciate the simplicity and grace of such 
lines as those " To Miss Georsiana Carteret." But Pope 
had been annoyed by Tickell's praise of Philips's "Pas- 


Blest as the immortal gods is he. 
The youth who fondly sits by thee. 
And bears aud sees tliee all the while 
Softly speak, aud sweetly smile. 

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, 
Aud raised snch tumults in my breast ; 
For while I gazed, iu transport tossed, 
My breath was goue, my voice was lost. 

My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame 
Ran quick through all my vital IVnnie; 
O'er my dim eyes a darkness bung, 
My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 

In dewy damps my limbs were chilled. 
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled : 
My feeble pulse forgot to play, 
I faiuted, sunk, aud died away. 


Little cb.arm of placid mien. 
Miniature of Beauty's Queen, 
Numbering years, a scanty nine. 
Stealing hearts without design. 
Young inveigler, fond iu wiles, 
Proue to mirth, profuse iu smiles. 
Yet a uovice In disd.ain, 
Pleasnre giving without pain. 
Still caressing, still cares.sed. 
Thou and all thy lovers blessed, 
Never teased, aud never teasing. 
Oh forever i>leased and pleasing ! 
Hither, British of mine, 
Hither, all the Grecian Nine, 
With the lovely Graces Three, 
And your promised nursling sec ! 
Figure on her Tvaxen mind 
Images of life refined ; 
Make it as a garden gay, 
Every bud of thought display. 
Till, improving year liy year. 
The whole culture .shall appear, 


fill SOX. 


Voice, and speech, ami action, rising, 
All to human sense surprising. 

Is the silkeu web so thin 
As the texture of her skin ? 
Can the lily and the rose 
Such unsullied hue disclose ? 
Are the violets so blue 
As her veins exposed to view ? 
Do the stars in wintry sky 
Twinkle brighter than her eye? 
Has the morniug lark a throat 
Sounding sweeter than her uote ? 
Whoe'er knew the like before thee ? — 
The}' who knew the nymph that bore thee! 

Collcii (Eibbcr. 

Though remembered as a poet by only one simple lit- 
tle piece, Gibber (1671-1757) was made poet-laureate in 
1730. He had considerable success both as an actor and 
a writer of plays, and was severely satirized by Pope in 
"The Dunciad." Cibbei-'s "Apology for bis Life" is 
one of the most entertaining autobiographies in the lan- 


Oh, say, what is that thing called light. 

Which I must ne'er enjoy ? 
What are the blessings of the sight? 

Oh, tell j'our poor blind boy ! 

You talk of Tvondrous things you see ; 

Yoti say the sun shines bright ; 
I feel him warm, but how can he, 

Or make it day or uight ? 

My day or uight myself I make, 

Whene'er I sleep or Jilay ; 
Aud could I ever keep awake 

With mo 'twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 
You nmurn my hapless woe ; 

But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy : 
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 

Although a poor blind boy. 

iJosEpI) !:^i)bisou. 

Addison (1673-1719), one of the most beloved charac- 
ters in English literature, was the son of a clergyman, 
and was born in Wiltsliire. His success at the Universi- 
ty of Oxford, the friendships be bad formed, his genial 
disposition and general culture, brought bim early int-o 
the sphere of fortunate patronage. In reward for some 
complimentary verses ou King William, lie got, at the age 
of twenty-tln'ce, a pension of JESOO a year. This enabled 
Iiim to travel. His epistle. from Italy to Lord Halifax 
belongs to the artificial school. The publication of the 
Tidier, and its successors, the Spectator and the Guardi- 
an, brought out Addison as one of the most graceful of 
English prose writers. He and Steele contributed the 
greater portion of the papers. In 1713, Addison pro- 
duced his tragedy of "Cato," and added largely thereby 
to his literary reputation. In 1716, be married the Count- 
ess Dowager of Warwick. It was not a happy union - 
In 1717, be was made Secretary of State; but he broke 
down as a public speaker, and the next year retired on 
a pension of £1500 a year. He did not live long to enjoy 
it. The room in which he died at Holland House has a 
large bay-window ovcilooUing the Park in the direction 
of Netting Hill. He died at the age of forty-eight, leav- 
ing an only cliild, a daughter, by the countess. Born 
in 171S, this daughter died in 1797. 

The biograpl:er of Andrew JIarvell has made it appear 
probable that the well-kuown lines, "The Spacious Fir- 
mament on High," also " The Lord my pasture shall 
prepare," were by Marvell. In the notice of that poet 
will be found tlio rcisous for crediting them to Addison. 
The internal evidences are decidedly in favor of his au- 
thorship. They were both inserted in the 6)-)cda<o)', with- 
out the name of the author, and have accordingly always 
passed as Addison's. 


When all thy mercies, O ray God, 

My rising soul surveys. 
Transported with the view I'm lost 

In wonder, love, and praise. 

Oh, how shall words with equal warmth 

The gratitude declare. 
That glows within my ravished heart ! 

But thou canst read it there. 

Thy providence my life sustained. 
And all my wants redressed, 

W^ben in the silent womb I lay, 
And hung upon the breast. 

To all my weak complaints and erics, 

Thy mercy lent an ear. 
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 

To form themselves in prayer. 



Uniuimbered comforts to my soul 

Thy teuder care bestowed ; 
Before my infant heart conceived 

From •nhcuce these comforts flowed. 

When in the slippery paths of youth, 

With lieedless steps I ran, 
Thine tirni, uuseeu, conveyed me safe, 

And led me up to man. 

Through hidden dangers, toils, and death, 

It gently cleared my way. 
And through the pleasing snares of vice, 

More to he feared than they. 

AVheu worn with sickness, oft hast thou 
With liealth renewed my face ; 

And when in sins and sorrows sunk. 
Revived my soul with grace. 

Thy bounteous hand with -worldly bliss 
Hath made my cup run o'er ; 

And in a kind and fiiithful friend 
Hath doubled all my store. 

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 

My daily thanks employ ; 
Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 

That tastes those gifts with joy. 

Through every period of my life 

Thy goodness I'll pursue ; 
And after death, in distant worlds, 

Tlie glorious theme renew. 

When nature fails, and day and night 

Divide thy works no moie, 
My ever-gratefnl heart, O Lord, 

Thy mercy shall adore. 

Through all eternity, to thee 

A joyful song I'll raise ; 
For, oh, eternity's too short 

To utter all thy praise ! 


The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 

The unwearied sun from day to day 
Does his Creator's power display. 
And publishes to every laud 
The work of an almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
Tbe moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And, nightly, to the listening earth 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn. 
And all the planets in their turn 
Confirni the tidings as they roll. 
And sjiread tbe trutli from pole to pole. 

What though, in .solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball f 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
lu reason's car they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing, as they shiue, 
" The hand that made us is divine." 


The Lord my jiasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
His presence shall my wants supply, 
And guard me with a watchful eye; 
My noonday walks he shall attend, 
And all my midnight hours defend. 

When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
Or on the thirsty mountains pant, 
To fertile vales and dewy meads. 
My weary wandering steps he leads, 
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow. 
Amid tho verdant landscape flow. 

Tliongh in the iiaths of death I tread 
With gloomy horrors overspread. 
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, 
For thou, O God, art with mo still : 
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

Though in a bare and rugged way, 
Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 
Tliy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 
The barren wilderness shall smile. 
With sudden greens and herbage crowned. 
And streams shall murmur all around. 




It. must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well ; 
Else whoiice this pleasing hope, this foud desire, 
Tliis lon^nns ;it'ti-r inimortality ? 
Or ■whenc' tliis secret dread aud Inward horror 
or falling into naught ? "Why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself and startles at destruction ? 
— 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us, 
'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
Aud intimates Eternity to man. 
Eternity ! — thou pleasing — dreadful thought ! 
Through what variety of untried being — 
Through what new scenes and changes must we 

jiass ! 
The wide, til' unbounded jirospect lies before me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold: — If there's a Power above us 
(And that there is all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works), he must delight in Virtue ; 
And that which he delights in must be happy : 
But — when ? — or where ? — This worlil was made for 

I'm weary of conjectures : — Tliis must end them. 

ILaying his hand on his sword. 
Thus I am doubly armed ; my death aud life, 
Jly bane and autidote are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to an end, 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secured iu her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
I'nhurt amid the wars of elements, 
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. 


How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide. 

Their helj) Omnipotence. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote, 

Supported by thy care, 
Through burning climes I passed unhurt, 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweetened every toil, 
Made e^ery region please ; 

The hoary Alpine hills it warmed. 
And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 

Think, oh ray soul, devoutly tliink, 

How, with aftrighted eyes. 
Thou saw'st the wide extended deep 

In all its horrors rise. 

Confusion dwelt in every face. 

And fear in every heart ; 
When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs 

O'ercame the pilot's art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord, 

Thy mercy set 7ne free, 
Whilst in the confidence of ])rayer, 

My faith took hold on thee. 

For, though in dreadful whirls we hung 

High on the broken wave, 
I knew thou wert not slow to hear, 

Nor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the winds retired 

Obedient to thy will ; 
The sea, that roared at thy command. 

At thy command was still. 

In midst of dangers, fears, and death. 

Thy goodness I'll adore. 
And praise thee for thy mercies past. 

And humbly hope for more. 

My life, if thou preserv'st my life, 

Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 

Shall join my soul to thee. 

Isaac lUatts, WM. 

This eminent writer (1G74-174.S) was born at South- 
ampton. His parents were Protestant dissenters, who 
liad suffered severely for their faith during the arbitrary 
times of Cliarles II. Watts read Latin at five years of 
age. Ho was well instructed, and became an Indepen- 
dent minister; but weak health prevented his devoting 
himself actively to his profession. The last thirty-six 
years of his long life were spent in the house of his 
friend, Sir Tliomas Abney. Watts wrote " Divine Songs, 
Attempted in Easy Lungunge for the Use of Children ;" 
but in Ins later years he is said to have abiindoned the 
cstremc Calvinistic views expressed in those once-popu- 
lar productions, and to have leaned almost to Universal- 
ism. His "Logic," aud his work ou " The Improvement 



of tliu Mind," show that he could write English prose 
witii clearness and Ibr-ce. He was the autliur of some 
ciglit hnndred hymns, most of them of little account in 
a literary respect, tliough in some he manifests genuine 
j)oetic feeling. Many of them still retain their liigli 
place among devotional etfnsions. The character of 
\Vatts was amiable and beautiful to the last. His poem 
of "True Riches" is alone sufficient to justify his claim 
to be ranked among true poets. 


I am not couceruetl to know 
What to-morrow fate \Yill do ; 
'Tis euongli that I can say 
I've pos.sessed myself to-day : 
Tlien, if, liaply, midnight death 
Seize my tiesli, and stop my breath, 
Yet to-morrow I shall Ijo 
Heir of the best part of me. 

Glittering stones and golden tilings, 
Wealth and honors, that liave wings, 
Ever fluttering to be gone, 
I could never call my own. 
Riches that the world bestows, 
She cau take and I can lose ; 
Bnt the treasures that are mine 
Lie afar beyond her line. 
When I view my siiacious soul, 
And survey myself a whole, 
And enjoy myself alone, 
I'm a kingdom of my own. 

I've a mighty part within 
That the world hath never seen, 
Rich as Eden's happy ground. 
And with choicer plenty crowned. 
Here on all tlie shining boughs 
Knowledge fair and useless' grows ; 
On the same yonng flowery tree 
All the seasons yon may see : 
Notions in the bloom of light 
Just disclosing to the sight ; 
Here are thoughts of larger growth 
Ripening into solid truth ; 
Fruits refined of noble taste, — 
Seraphs feed on such rejiast. 
Here, in green and shady grove. 
Streams of pleasure mix with love ; 
There, beneath the smiling skies. 
Hills of contemplation rise ; 
Now upon some shining top 
Angels light, and call me up : 

Apparently implying not to be used in this world. 

I rejoice to raise my feet 

Both rejoice when there v.. i.... .. 

There are endless beauties more 
Earth hath no resemblance for; 
Nothing like them round tlie i»>\e ; 
Nothing can describe the soul : 
'Tis a region half unkirown, 
That has treasures of its own, 
More remote from public view 
Than the bowels of Peru ; 
Broader 'tis and brighter far 
Than the golden Indies are : 
Ships that trace the watery stage 
Cannot coast it in an age ; 
Harts or horses, strong and fleet, 
Had tliey wings to help their feet. 
Could not run it half-way o'er 
In ten thousand days and more. 

Yet the silly wauderiug mind, 
Loath to be too much cmitiued. 
Roves and takes her daily tours, 
Coasting round the narrow shores — 
Narrow shores of and sense. 
Picking shells and pebbles thence: 
Or she sits at Fancy's door. 
Calling shapes and shadows to her; 
Foreign visits still receiving. 
And to herself a stranger living. 
Never, never would she buy 
Indian dust or Tyrian dye. 
Never trade abroad for more, 
If she saw her native shore; 
If her inward worth were known, 
She might ever live alone. 


Hast thou not seen, impatient boy? 

Hast thon not read the solemn truth, 
That gray experience writes for giddy youth 
On every mortal joy, — 
Pleasure must be dashed with pain ? 
And yet with heedless hasto 
The thirsty boy repeats the taste. 
Nor hearkens to despair, but tries the bowl again. 
The rills of pleasni-e never run siacere ; 
Earth has no unpolluted spring : 
From the cursed soil some dangerous taint they bear; 
So roses grow on thorns, and honey wears a sting. 

In vain we seek a heaven below the sky ; 
The world has false but flattering charms ; 



Its <listaiit joys show big iu our esteem, 
Biit lesson still as tbey draw near the eye : 

In our embrace the visions die ; 

And wbcn we grasp the airy forms, 
Wo loso tlio pleasing dream. 

Earth, witli her scenes of gay delight, 

Is but a landscape rudely drawn, 

With glaring colors and false light : 

Distance commends it to the sight, 
For fools to gaze upon ; 

But bring the nauseous daubing nigh, 
Coarse and confused the hideous tigures lie, 
Dissolve the i)leasurc, and otTend the eye. 

Look up, my soul, pant tow'rds tlie eternal 
Those heavens are fairer than they seem : 
There pleasures all sincere glide on in crystal 
rills ; 
There not a dreg of guilt defiles. 
Nor grief disturbs the stream : 
That Canaan knows no noxious thing, 
No cursed soil, no tainted spring, 
Nor roses grow ou thorns, uor honey bears a stiug. 


From all that dwell beneath the skies 
Let the Creator's praise arise ; 
Let the Redeemer's name be snug 
Through every land, by every tongue! 

Eternal are thy mercies, Lord ; 

Eternal truth attends thy word ; 

Thy praise shall sound from sliore to shore, 

Till suns shall rise and set no more. 


Joy to the world ! the Lord is come ! 

Let earth receive her King ! 
Let e^ery heart prepare him room, 

And Heaven and Nature sing. 

Joy to the earth! the Saviour reigns! 

Let men their songs employ ! 
While tields and woods, rocks, hills, and plains, 

Repeat the sounding joy. 

No more let sins and sorrows grow. 
Nor thorns infest the ground : 

He comes to make his blessings flow 
Far as the curse is fouiul. 

Ho rules tho world with truth and grace, 
And makes the nations prove 

The glories of his righteousness ., 
And wonders of his love. 

loljit j[3ljiliflG. 

Son of an arclihishop, John Pliilips (167fi-170S) was 
born in Oxfordshire, and educated at Oxford. He had 
early studied, and attempted to imitate, the style of Mil- 
ton. Tliis led to the production, iu 170-3, of the bur- 
lesque poem by whicli ho is now remembered — "The 
Splendid Shilling." It would not have created much 
of a sensation had it been published a century later; but 
iu its day it had rare success, and is still read with pleas- 
ure. Philips also wrote a creditable poem on a most 
unpromising theme — "Cider." He led a blameless life, 
was much esteemed, aud died young. 


Happy the man who, void of cares and strife. 
In silken or in leathern purse retains 
A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain 
New oysters cried, uor sighs for cbeerful ale ; 
But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, 
To Junipers Magpie, or Town-hall repairs. 
Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye 
Transfixed his soul and kindled amorous flames, 
Chloe, or PhiUis, he, each circling glass, 
Wisheth her health, aud joy, and equal love : 
Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale 
Or pun ambiguous or couundrura quaint. 
But I, whom grii)iug penury surrounds, 
And Lunger, sure attendant upon want. 
With scanty oflals aud small acid titf 
(Wretched repast!) my meagre corps snstaiu ; 
Thou solitary walk, or doze at homo 
In garret vile, and with a warming iiuff 
Regale chilled fingers, or from tube as black 
As winter-chinniey or well-polished jet 
Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent. 
Not blacker tube, uor of a shorter size, 
Smokes Cauibro-Britou (versed iu pedigree. 
Sprung from Cadwallador aud Arthur, kiugs 
Full famous in romautic tale) when he 



0"er many a cragsy hill and barren cliff, 

Upou a cargo of I'aiiu'd Ocstiiaii cheese 

High over-shadoxviiig rides, with a design 

To vend his wares or at tli' Arvonian mart. 

Or Mandimum,' or the aucient town 

Ycleped Brechiuia, or vrhere Vaga's stream 

Encircles Ariconinm, fruitful soil ! 

Whence flow uectareons wines that well may vie 

Witli Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. 

Tluis, while my joyless minntes tedious tlow, 
With looks demure and silent pace, a dun, 
Horrible monster! hated by gods and men! 
To my aerial citadel ascends. 
With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, 
With hideous accent thrice ho calls; I know 
Tlie voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. 
What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, 
Confounded, to the dark recess I fly 
Of wood-hole. Straight my bristling hairs erect 
Tlirougli sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews 
My sliuddering liml>s; and (wonderful to tell!) 
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech, 
So horrible he seems ! His faded brow 
Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, 
And spreading band admired by modern saints. 
Disastrous acts forebode ; in his right hand 
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, 
With characters and figures dire inscribed, 
Grievous to mortal eyes : ye gods, avert 
Such plagues from righteous men! Behind Iiim 

Another monster, not unlike himself. 
Sullen of aspect, by tin; vulgar called 
A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods 
With force incredible and magic charms 
First have endueil. If he his aniplo palm 
Should, haply, on ill-fated shoulder lay 
(If debtor, straight his body, to the touch 
Obsequious (as wliiloni knights were wont). 
To sonic enchanted castle is conveyed. 
Where gates impregnable and coercive chains 
In durance strict detain him, till in form 
Of money Pallas sets tlie captive free. 

Beware, yc debtors, when ye walk, Ix^ware ! 
Be circumspect! Oft with insidious ken 
Tliis caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft 
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, 
Promiit to enchant some inadvertent wretch 
With his unhallowed touch. 

1 MarUhmmn, Oiiprmnnlion ; Z»Vcc/()7a'a, Brecknock ; Vaga, 
the Wye; Ariconinm, Hereford. 

(tljomas Parncll. 

Of English descent, Piu-nell (1C79-1718) was born in 
Dublin. He became archUeacon of Cloglier, and Swift 
got for liim tbe appointment of viear of Finglas. He 
was the friend of Pojie, and assisted him in the transla- 
tion of Homer. "The Hermit" is the poem for whieli 
Parnell still maintains a respectable rank amonn- Eng- 
lish poets ; but tliere are otiier poems of considerable 
merit from Ills pen. Pope collected and published them 
all in 1731, dedicating them ta Robert Harley, Earl of 
0.\ford, who had been Parnell's friend. In his dedica- 
tion. Pope says: 

" Such were the notes thy once-loved poet snng, 
Till dcjith niiliniely stopped his tuneful tongue. 
O jnst beheld and lost ! adtnired nnd mourned ! 
With softest inanners, gentlest arts adorned ! 
I'.lcst ill each science, blest in every strain I 
Dear to the Muse, to Ilarley dear — iu vain !" 

"The Hermit" is a modern version of a talc from the 
"Gcsta Romanorum," which was the name of a mediae- 
val collection of Latin tales, moralized for the use of 
preachers, each tale having a religions "application" 
tilted to it. 


Far in a wild utiktiowu to public view, 
From youth to age a reverond hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : 
Remote from man, with God he passed the dtiys. 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose. 
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose: 
That Vice should tritimiili. Virtue Vice obey — 
Tbis sprung some doubt of Providence's sway. 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost : 
So when a smooth expanse receives, imprest. 
Calm Nature's imago on its watery breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, 
And skies boneilth with answering colors glow; — 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide. 
Swift rtifiling circles curl ou every side. 
And glimmering fragnients of a broken sun. 
Banks, trees, and skies in thick disorder run ! 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight. 
To find if books or swains report it right 
(For yet by swains alone the world lie knew. 
Whoso feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew) 
Ho quits his cell; the pilgrim-staft" he bore, 
And lixed the scallop in his hat before; 
Then with the sun a rising jonruey went, 
Sedtito to think, and watching each event. 



Tlio iiioru was wasted iu the pathless grass, 
Aud long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
But when the sontheru sun liad warmed the day, 
A Youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
And soft iu graceful ringlets waved his hair. 
Then near ajiproaching, " Father, hall !" ho cried ; 
Aud " Hail, my son !" the reverend sire replied. 
Words followed words, from question answer flowed, 
And talk of various kind deceived the road ; 
Till each with other pleased, and loath to part, 
While in their age they diti'er, join iu heart: 
Thus stands an aged elm iu ivy bound, 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature in silence bid the world repose : 
When near the road a stately palace rose. 
There by the moon thro' rauks of trees they pass, 
Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made liis house the wandering stranger's home. 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of food, 
And all is more than hospitably good ; 
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown. 
Deep suuk in sleep, aud silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep. 
And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : 
An early banquet decked the splendid hall ; 
Rich, luscious wine a golden goblet graced. 
Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. 
Then, pleased aud thankful, from the jjprch they go, 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe : 
His cup was vauished, for iu secret guise 
The younger guest pniloiued the glittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent iu his way. 
Glistening and basking iu the summer ray. 
Disordered, stops to shun the danger near, 
Theu walks with faiutuess on, and looks with fear; 
.So seemed the sire when, far upon the road. 
The shining spoil his wily partner showed. 
He stopped with sileuce, walked with trenibliug 

And much he wished, but durst not ask, to part : 
Jlnrmuring, he lifts- his eyes, and thinks it hard 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass the sun his glory shrouds, 
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds, 
A sound iu air presaged approaching rain. 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warned by the signs, the wandering pair re- 
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, 
Aud strong, and large, aud unimproved around ; 
Its owner's temper, timorous aud severe, 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began, 
And o'er their heads loud-rolling thunders ran. 
Here loug they knock, but call or knock iu vain. 
Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain. 
At length some pity warmed the mastcr'.s breast 
('Twas then his threshold tirst received a guest), 
Slow creaking, turns the door with jealous care, 
And half he welcomes iu the shivering pair. 
One frugal fagot lights the )iaked walls, 
Aud Nature's fervor thro' their limbs recalls ; 
Bread of the coar.sest sort, with eager' wine 
(Each hardly granted), served them both to dine: 
Aud when the tempest first appeared to cease, 
A ready warning bid tbeiu part in peace. 

With still remark the pondering hermit viewed 
In one so rich a life so poor and rude ; 
Aud why should such (within himself he cried) 
Lock the lost we.alth a thousand want beside ? 
But what new marks of wonder soon took place. 
In every settling feature of his face. 
When from his vest the young companion bore cnp the generous landlord owned before, 
xind paid profusely with the precious bowl 
The stinted kiudness of this churlish soul ! 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves display. 
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day : 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
Aud the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

While hence they walk the pilgrim's bosom 
With all the travail of uncert.niu thought. 
His partner's acts without their cause appear; 
'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here : 
Detesting that, aud pitying this, he goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 

1 French, aigre, sharp, acid. "With eager corapouuds we our 
palate urge." — Suakbpkake, Sonuet lis. 



Now uigUt's dim sliades again iuvolve tbe sky ; \ 
Again the waiuleiers want a place to lie ; |- 

Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. ) 

The soil improved aronnd, tlie mansion neat, 
And neither poorly low nor idly great : 
It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind, 
Content, and not for praise bnt virtue kind. 

Hither the walkers tnrn ■with weary feet. 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. 
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest gnise, 
The conrteous master hears, and thns replies : 

" Without a vain, withont a grudging heart, 
To Him who gives us all I yield a part ; 
From Him you come, for Him accept it here, 
A frank and sober more than costly clieer." 
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, 
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed, 
AVIieu the grave household round his hall repair. 
Warned by a bell, and close tlio hours with prayer. 

At length the world, renewed by calm repose, 
Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose. 
Before the jnlgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, 
And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride 
(Oh strange return!) grew black, and gasped, and 

Horror of horrors ! What ! his only son ! 
How looked our hermit when the fact was done! 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his 

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, 
He Hies, but, trembling, fails to lly with speed. 
His stops the youth pursues. The country lay 
Perplexed with roads : a servant showed the way. 
A river crossed the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to iiud : the servant trod before. 
Long arms of oaliS an open bridge supplied, 
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. 
The Vouth, who seemed to watch .'i time to sin, 
Apjuoached the careless guide, and thrust him iu : 
Plunging ho falls, and, rising, lifts his head ; 
Then, Hashing, turns, and sinks among the 

Wild, sparkling rage inllames the father's eyes ; 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
"Detested wretch!" — But scarce his speech began 
When the strange partner seemed no longer man. 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet; 
Fair rounds of radiant points iuvest liis hair; 
Celestial odors breathe through jiurpled air; 
And wings, whose colors glittered on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual )dnmes display. 

The form ethereal bursts upon his sight. 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the pilgrinrs passion grew, 
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; 
Surprise iu secret chains his words suspends, 
And iu a calm his settling temper ends. 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke 
(The voice of music ravished as he spoke) : 

"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice un- 
111 sweet memorial rise before the Throne. 
These charms success in our bright region find, 
Aud force an angel down to calm thy mind; 
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky : 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-scrvaiit I. 

"Then know the truth of government divine, 
And let these scruples bo uo longer thine. 

"The Maker justly claims that world he made: 
In this the Right of Providence is laid; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On usiug second means to work his ends. 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 
The Power exerts his attributes on high. 
Your action uses, uor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 

"What strange eveuts cau strike with more sur- 
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? 
Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just, 
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! 

"The great, vain man, who fared on costly food. 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts of 

wine ; 
Has with the cup the graceless custom lost. 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

"The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er moved, in duty to the wandering poor — 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl. 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead 
With heai>ing coals of fire upon its head : 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow. 
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 

"Long had our pious friend in virtue trod; 
But uow the child half-weaned his heart from God: 
Child of his age, for him he lived in pain. 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ! 
But God, to save tlie father, took the son. 



To all but tlice in fits he soeiiied to go, 
And 'twas my ministry to ileal tlio blow. 
The poor, foml parent, bumbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears tbo punishment was just. 

'•Ijut how bad all bis fortuue felt a wrack, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back! 
This night bis treasured heaps bo meant to steal, 
And what a i'lind of charity would fail! 

"Thus Heaven instructs tby mind. This trial 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

Ou sounding pinions here the youth withdrew ; 
The sago stood wondering as the seraph Hew. 
Thus looked Elisha when to mount on high 
His master took tbo chariot of tlie sky : 
The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view ; 
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. 

The bending hermit here a prayer begun — 
"Liud! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done!" 
Then, gladly turning, sought bis ancient place. 
And passed a life of piety and peace. 

(fDaiarb L'ounci. 

The author of the " Night Thoughts " (16S4-176.5) was 
educated at Oxford, and on finishing his education be- 
came, after the example of other poets of the time, an 
assiduous aspirant to court favor. But neitlicr Queen 
Anne nor George I. rewarded his zeal. Tlie patronage 
of the "notorious Wharton," a friend of Young's father, 
did the son no honor. He accompanied Wharton to 
Ireland iu 1716. It was during this visit tliat Young 
took a walk with Dean Swift, when the dean, looking 
at tlie withered upper branches of an elm, remarked, "I 
shall be like that tree ; I shall die at the top." Personal 
acquaintance docs not seem to have warded off the sat- 
ire of Swift; for after Young was appointed a king's 
chaplain iu 1737, Swift described the poet as compelled 

*' Tnrtnre Itis invention 
To flatter knaves, or lose his pcnsiou." 

But it does not appear that there was any other reward 
than the cliaplaincy. When fifty years old. Young mar- 
ried Lady Elizabeth Lee, a widow. By her he had a son. 
She had two children by her former marriage, and to 
tliese Young became warmly attached. Both died; and 
when tlie mother also followed, Young composed bis 
"Niglit Thoughts," a work of unquestionable power, 
exliibiting rare skill iu giving condensed force to lan- 
gu;ige, and, amidst all its gloom, occasionally lit up with 
Hashes of genuine poetical feeling. Sixty years had ele- 
vated and enriched Young's genius, and augmented even 
the brilliancy of his fancy. The extremity of age could 
not arrest his indomitable mental activity. He died 
in the nudst of his literary employments, at the age of 

The foundation of his great poem was family misfort- 
une, colored and exaggerated for effect : — 

"Insatiate archer! conid not one soflice? 
Thy shafts flew thrice, and thrice my ])eace was slain ; 
And tin-ice, ere tliiice you inoun had filled her horn." 

This rapid succession of bereavements was a poetical 
license ; for in one of the cases there was an interval of 
four years, and in another of seven months. 

In s]iite of the artlHcial, antithetical, and epigrammatic 
style of parts of the great poem — in spite of what Haz- 
litt calls "its glitter and lofty piretousious" — it still 
leaves for our admiration many noble passages, where 
the poet speaks, as from inspiration, of life, death, and 
immortality. The more carefully it is studied the more 
extraordinary and weighty with thought will it appear. 
But there is uo plot or progressive interest in the poem. 
Each of the nine books is independent of the other. 
Ilazlitt thinks it "has been much over-rated from tlie 
popularity of the subject;" but this we do not admit. 
The wonder is in that mastery of language that could 
iloat a theme so vast and so uupromisiiig. 

Young wrote satires under the title of the "Love of 
Fame, the Universal Passion ;" also I'lays, among which 
"Busiris" and "The Revenge" had considerable suc- 
cess on the stage. But his "Night Thouglits" is a 
work that so towers above them all, as to leave his other 
poems in merited obscurity. Tlie lapse of time has en- 
hanced rather than detracted from the fame of this e.x- 
traordiuary production. Lord Lytton has left liis tes- 
timony to its greatness. 

Young, who had become acquainted with Voltaire 
(thirteen years his junior) during the latter's residence 
iu England (about the year 1728), dedicated some of his 
vci-ses to him iu a poem of fifty-four lines, highly com- 
plimentary to the rising French author. 


Tboti who did'st put to flight 

Primeval silence, when the morning stars, 

Exulting, shouted o'er the rising vale ; — • 

O thoti ! whose word from solid darkness struck 

That spark, the sun, — strike wisdom from my soul ; 

My soul wbieb flies to thee, her trust, her treasnre, 

As misers to their gold wliile others rest. 

Through this opaqne of nature and of soul. 
This double night, transmit one pitying ray. 
To lighten and to cheer. Oh, lead my mind 
(A mind that fain would wander from its woe). 
Lead it through various scenes of life and death, 
And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. 
Nor less inspire my conduct than my song ; 
Teach my best reason, reason ; my best will, 
Teach rectitude ; and fix my firm resolve 
Wisdom to wed, and jiay her long arrear : 



Nor let the vial of thy vengeance, poured 
On this devoted head, bo poured in vain. 

The bell strilies one. We take no note of time 
But from its loss: to give it then a tongue 
Is wise in m.-in. As if an angel spoke, 
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 
It is the knell of my departed hours. 
Where are they ? With the years beyond the flood. 
It is the signal that demands despatch : 
How much is to be done ! Mj' hopes and fears 
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge 
Look down — on what? A fathomless abyss; 
A dread eternity ! how surely mine ! 
And can eternity belong to me, 
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour! 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 
How passing wonder He who made him such ! 
Who centred in our make such strange extremes ! 
From diifereut natures, marvellouslj' mixed, 
Connection exquisite of distant worlds! 
Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! 
Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 
A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt ! 
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine ! 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute! 
An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself. 
And in my.self am lost. At home a stranger, 
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast. 
And wondering at her own. How reason reels! 
Oh ! what a miracle to man is man ! 
Triumphantly distressed! what joy ! what dread! 
Alternately transported and alarmed ! 
What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? 
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; 
Legions of angels can't coiiflne me there. 


Night I. 

E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal : 
E'en silent night proclaims eternal day ; 
For human weal heaven husbands all events : 
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. 

Why then their loss deplore that are not lost? 
Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around 
In infidel distress f Are angels there ? 
i^lnmbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ? 

They live, they greatly live — a life ou earth 
LTnkindled, nnconceived — and from an eye 

Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall 

On me, more justly numbered with the dead. 

This is the desert, this the solitude, 

# if if * # » 

The land of apparitions, empty shades ! 
All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond 
Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed ! 

« # # ff * * 

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn. 
The twilight of our day, the vestibule ; 

Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts, 

Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 

Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon. 

Here pinions all his wishes; winged by heaven 

To fly at infinite — and reach it there 

Where seraphs gather immortality. 

On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 

What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow 

In his full beam, and ripen for the just, 

Where momentary ages are no more ! 

Where time and pain ,and chance and death expire! 

And is it in the flight of threescore years, 

To push eternity from human thought. 

And smother souls immortal in the dust ? — 

A soul immortal, spending all her tires, 
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness. 
Thrown into tumult, rai)tured or alarmed, 
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 
Resembles ocean into tempest wrought. 
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 

Night I. 

How often I repeat their rage divine. 

To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe ! 

I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire : 

Dark, though not blind, like thee, M^onides! 

Or, Milton ! thee ; ah, could I reach your strain ! 

Or his, who made Majouides' our own : 

Man too lie sung ; immortal man I sing ; 

Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life : 

What now but innnortality can please ! 

Oh, had he pressed the theme, pursued the track 

Which opens out of darkness into day ! 

Oh, had he, mounted ou his wings of fire. 

Soared where I sink, and sung immortal man. 

How had it blest mankind, and rescued me! 

' By MiBonides is niennt Ilnmer; and by him "who made 
Mffionides our iiwu" is meant Pope, who wrote the "Essay on 
Man," and translated Uomer. 





Then welcome, Death ! thy dreaJeil harbingers, 
Age and disease ; disease, though long my gnest ; 
That phicks my nerves, those tender strings of life, 
■Which, plucked a little more, \Yill toll the bell. 
That calls my few friends to my funeral ; 
Where feeble Nature drops, perhaps, a, tear. 
While Reason and Keligiou, better taught. 
Congratulate the dead, aud crown his tomb 
With wreath triuuiphaut. Death is victory! 
^ * * # * # 

Death is the crown of life : 

Were death denied, poor man would live in vain ; 
Were death denied, to live would not be life ; 
Were death denied, e'en fools would wish to die. 
Death wounds to cure: we fall, we rise, we reigii — 
Spring from our fetters ; fasten in the skies 
Where blooming Edeu withers in our sight: 
Death gives us more than was in Edeu lost ; — ■ 
This king of terrors is the prince of peace. 
When shall I die to vanity, pain, death ? 
When shall I (lief — When shall I live forever? 



thou great Arbiter of life and death ! 
Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun ! 
Whose all-prolific beam late called me forth 
From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay 
The worm's inferior, and, in rank beneath 
The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow. 
To drink the spirit of the golden day, 

Aud triumph iu existence ; aud could know 
No motive but my bliss; aud hast ordained 
A rise in blessing ! — with the patriarch's joy, 
Thy call I follow to the laud unknown ; 

1 trust iu thee, and know in whom I trust : 
Or life or death is equal; neither weiglis : 
All weight is this — O let me live to thee ! 



Why donbt we, then, the glorious truth to sing. 

Though yet unsung, as deemed perhaxts too bold i 

Angels are men of a superior kind ; 

Angels are lueu in lighter habit clad. 

High o'er celestial mountains winged in flight ; 

Aud nieu are angels loaded for an hour, 
W^ho w.ado this miry vale, and climb with paiu, 
And slippery step, the bottom of the steep. 
Angels their failings, mortals have their praise ; 
While here, of corps ethereal, such enrolled, 
Aud summoned to the glorious standard soon. 
Which llames eternal erimsou through the skies. 
Nor are our brothers thoughtless of their 'kin. 
Yet absent ; but not absent from their love. 
Michael has fought our battles ; Raphael suug 
Our triumphs ; Gabriel on our errands flown. 
Sent by the So^'ereigu ; and are these, O uum ! 
Thy friends, thy warm allies? and thou (shame 

Tliy cheek to cinder!) rival to the brute? 


Night VI. 

The world of matter, with its various forms. 
All dies iuto new life. Life born from death 
Rolls the vast mass, and shall forever roll. 
No single atom, once iu being, lost, 
With change of counsel charges the Most High. 

What hence infers Lorenzo ? Can it be ? 
Matter immortal ? Aud shall spirit die ? 
Above the nobler, shall less noble rise ? 
Imperial man be sown iu barren ground. 
Less privileged than grain on which he feeds ? 


Night VII. 

If man sleeps on, untaught bj' what he sees, 
Can he prove iufidel to what he feels ? 
He, whose blind thought futurity deuics. 
Unconscious bears, Bellerophou, like thee. 
His own indictment ; he condemns himself. 
Who reads his bosom, reads immortal life, 
Or Nature, there, imposing on her sous, 
Has written fables ; man was made a lie. 

# * * * # # 
His imuiortalit}' alone can solve 

Tiie darkest of enigmas, human hope, — 
Of all the darkest, if at death we die I 

* * * * rf * 
Since virtue's recompense is doubtful here. 

If man dies wholly, well may we demand, — 
y * * * # ?f 

Why whispers Nature lies on virtue's part ? 
Or if blind instinct (which assumes the name 



Of sacred coiiscieuce) plays the fool in man, 
Why reason made accomplice in the cheat ? 
Why are the wisest loudest in her praise ? 
Can man liy reason's heam be led astray ? 
Or at his peril imitate his God ? 
Since virtne sometimes ruins us on eartli. 
Or both are true, or man survives the grave ! 

Dive to the bottom of his soul, the base 
Sustaining all, — what find we? Knowledge, love, 
As light and heat essential to the siiu. 
These to the soul. And why, if souls expire ? 

* » » ^ # * 

This cannot be. To love and know, in man 
Is boundless appetite and boundless jiower; 
And tliese demonstrate boundless objects too. 

* T* ^ ^ Tf * 

'Tis immortality deciphers man, 
And opens all the mysteries of his malce : 
Without it, half his instincts are a riddle : 
Witliont it, all his virtues are a dream. 

* .ff *r ^ if # 

Still seems it strange that thou shonld'st live 
forever ? 
Is it less strauge that thou shoukVst live at all? 
This is a miracle ; and that no moie. 
AVIio gave beginning can exclude au end. 
Deny thou art, then doubt if thou shall he. 
A miracle with miracles inclosed. 
Is mau ; and starts his faith at what is strange ? 
AVhat less than wonders from the wonderful ; 
Wliat less than miracles from God can How 1 
Admit a God — that mystery supreme — 
That cause uncaused ! — all other woiulers cease ; 
Nothing is marvellous for him to do : 
Deny him — all is mystery besides : 
Millions of mysteries ! each darker far 
Than that thy wisdom would unwisely shun. 
If weak thj' faith, why choose the harder side ? 
We nothing know but what is marvellous, — 
Yet what is marvellous we can't believe ! 


Retire; — the world shut out; — thy thoughts call 

home ; — 
Imagination's airy wing repress ; — 
Lock up thy senses; — lot no jiassiou stir; 
Wake all to reason ; — let her reign alone ; 
Tlien, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth 
Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire, 

As I have done ; and shall inquire no more. 
In Nature's channel, thus the questions run : — 
"What am I? and from whence? — I nothing 
But that I am : and, since I am, conclude 
Something eternal : had there e'er been naught, 
Naught still had been ; eternal there must be. — 
But what eternal? — Why not human race? 
And Adam's ancestors without an eud 1 — 
That's hard to be conceived, since every link 
Of that long-chained succession is so frail. 
Can every part depend, and not the whole? 
Yet grant it true; new difficulties rise; 
I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. 
Wlience Earth, and these bright orbs? — Eternal too? 
Grant matter was eternal ; still these orbs 
Would want some other father; — much design 
Is .seen in all their motions, all their makes ; 
Design implies intelligence and art; 
That can't be from themselves — or man : that art 
Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow? 
And nothing greater yet allowed than man. — 
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain. 
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight? 
Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume 
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly? 
Has matter innate motion? then each atom. 
Asserting its indisputable right 
To dance, would form a universe of dust : 
Has matter none? Then whence these glorious 

And boundless flights, from shapeless, and rejiosed ? 
Has matter more than motion? has it thought. 
Judgment, and genins ? is it deeply learned 
In mathematics ? Has it framed such laws. 
Which but to guess, a Newton made immortal ? — 
If so, how each sage atom laughs at me, 
Wlio think a clod inferior to a mau! 
If art, to form ; and counsel, to conduct ; 
Aud that with greater far than human skill, 
Resides not in each block ; — a Godhead reigns. 
Grant, then, invisible, eternal Mind ; 
Tlutt granted, all is solved." 

(£'Eorgc BcrK'clni. 

Altlion™)! Berkeley (168i-17.53) is known in poetical 
literature by only a single piece, yet that seems to have 
in it the cleuieiits of a persistent vitality. Boni in Kil- 
kenny County, IreUnul, he was educated at Trinity Col- 
lcu;e, Dublin. He was intimate with Sivift, Pope, Steele, 
and their "set,"'iuul Pope assigned to liim "every virtue 
under heaven." By these friends he seems to have been 



sinceix-ly beloved. lu 1713, be piibUshed liis most iin- 
porUint philosopbical work, "Three Dialogues between 
Hylns and Pliilonous," in wliicb liis system of ideality 
is developed with singnlar felieity of illustration, purity 
of style, and subtlety of tlionglit. It gave liim a reputa- 
tion that is still upon the inerease. In 1739, lie sailed 
for Rhode Island, fixed his residenec at Newport, and re- 
mained there, or on the farm of Whitehall in the vieiui- 
ty, some two years. To the libraries of Harvard and 
Yale he made important donations of books. Returning 
to Euirland, he was appointed, in 1734, Bishop of Cloyne. 
In 17.53, he removed to Oxford to superintend the educa- 
tion of one of his sons, and died there very suddenly the 
next year while sitting on a eouch in the midst of his 
fouiily, while his wife was reading to liim. 


TIio mnse, disgusted at an age and clime, 

Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lauds now waits a Ijctter time, 

Producing subjects worthy fame. 

In liappy climes, wbere from tlie suu 
And virgin earth such scenes eusne, 

The force of art by nature seems outdoue, 
And fancied beauties by the trne : 

In happy climes, the seat of innocence, 
Where nature guides, and virtue rules ; 

Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
The jiedautry of courts and schools : 

There shall be snng another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts. 
The good and great inspiring epic rage, 

Tlie wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in ber decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and youug. 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay. 

By future poets shall be snng. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

211Uau Uamsaij. 

Ramsay (1686-17.')S) was a native of Lanarkshire, Scot- 
land. Most of liis long life was passed in Edinburgh, 
where he was a wig-maker, and then a book-seller and 

keeper of a circulating library. His pastoral drama, 
" The Gentle Shepherd," flrst published in 1735, and 
written in the strong, broad Doric of North Britain, is 
the fmest existing specimen of its class. His songs, too, 
have endeared him to the Scottish heart. 


Ae day a Clock wad brag a Dial, 
And put bis qualities to trial ; 
Spake to liim thus, " My neighbor, pray, 
C'aii'st tell me what's the time of day f" 
The Dial said, " I dinna ken." — 
"Alake! what stand ye there for, then f — 
" I wait here till the suu shines bright, 
For naught I keu but by his light :" 
"Wait on," quoth Clock, "I scorn bis help, 
Baith night and day my lane'. I skclp.' 
Wind up my weights but aiies a week. 
Without him I can gang and speak ; 
Nor like an useless suinjih I stand. 
But constantly wheel ronnd my hand : 
Hark, hark, I strike just now the hour ; 
And I am right, ane — twa — three — four." 

Whilst thus the Clock was boasting loud, 
The bleezing sun br.ak throw a cloud ; 
The Dial, faithfn' to bis guide. 
Spake truth, and laid the thumper's pride. 
"Ye see," said he, "I've dung yon fair; 
'Tis four hours and three-quarters mair. 
M,y friend," he added, " count again. 
And learn a wee to be less vain : 
Ne'er brag of constant clavering cant. 
And that you answers never want ; 
For you're not aye to be believed : 
W'ha trusts to you may be decei^•ed. 
Be counselled to behave like me ; 
For when I dinna clearly see 
I always own I dinna keu, 
And that's the way of wi.sest men." 


Farewell to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I ha'e niony day 

been ! 
For Lochaber no more, Lochal)er no more. 
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more ! 
These tears that I .shed they are a' for my dear, 
And no for the dangers attending on war, 

' By myself. 

= Beat as a clock. 



Though boi-ue on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
Ma J be to return to Lochaber uo more. 

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind ; 
Though loudest of thunder ou louder waves roar, 
That's naethiug like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; 
By ease that's iuglorious no fame can be gained ; 
Aud beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeanie. maun plead my excuse : 
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? 
Withont it I ne'er can have merit for thee, 
Aud without thy favor I'd better not be. 
I gae, then, ray lass, to win honor aud fame ; 
And if I shonUl luck to come gloriously hame, 
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 

^niic, (Countess of llHncljclsca. 

Daui;hter of Sir Richard Kingsmill, and wife of Hene- 
nsc. Earl of Winchelsca, this lady (cimx ieC0-lT20) pub- 
lished a volume of poems in 1713, and left many in man- 
uscript. Her fable of "The Atheist aud the Acorn" is 
well known, and is still often reprinted. Wordsworth 
sajs of her: "She is one of the very few original ob- 
servers of nature who appeared in an artiflcial age ;" and 
Leigh Html says: "She deserves to have been gathered 
into collections of English verse far more tlian half of 
our minor poets." She was the friend of Pope, who ad- 
dressed an "Impromptu" to her, complimentary in its 
character. The following beautiful poem is not a con- 
tinuous extract, but is made up of passages, the omis- 
sions in which are not indicated by the usual marks. 


Give me, O indulgent Fate, 

Give me yet, before I die, 

A sweet but absolute retreat, 

'Mong paths so lost, aud trees so high, 

That the world may ne'er invade, 

Through such windings aud such shade, 

My Jinshaken liberty ! 

Xo intruders thither come 
Who visit but to be from home, — 
None who their vain moments pass, 
Only studious of their glass! 

Be no tidings thither brought ! 
But, silent as a midnight thought. 
Where the world may ne'er Invade, 
Be those windings and that shade ! 

Courteous Fate ! afford me there 
A table spread without my care 
With Avhat the neighboring fields impart, 
Whose cleanliness be all its art. — 
Fruits, indeed (would Heaven bestow), 
All that did in Eden grow 
(All but the forbidden tree). 
Would be coveted by me ; — 
Grapes, with juice so crowded up 
As breaking through their native cup ; 
Figs (yet growing) candied o'er 
By the sun's attracting power; 
Cherries, with the downy peach, — 
All within my easy reach .' 
Whilst, creeping near the humble ground. 
Should the strawberry be found. 
Springing wheresoe'er I strayed 
Thi'ongh those wiudiugs aud that shade! 

Give me there (since Heaven has shown 
It was not good to be alone), 
A partner suited to my mind, — 
Solitary, pleased, and kind, — 
AVho, partially, may something see, 
Preferred to all the world, in me ; 
Slighting, by my humble side. 
Fame aud splendor, wealth and pride. 
Rage, and jealousy, and hate, — 
Transports of man's fallen state 
When by Satan's wiles betrayed, — 
Fly those windings and that shade ! 

Let me, then, indulgent Fate, 
Let me, still in my retreat. 
From all roving thoughts be freed, 
Or aims that may contention breed ; 
Nor be my endeavors led 
By goods that perish with the dead ! 
Fitly might the life of man 
Be, indeed, esteemed a span. 
If the present moment were 
Of delight his only share; 
If no other joys he knew 
Than what round about him grew : — 
But, as those who stars would trace 
From a subterranean place. 
Through some engine lift their eyes 
To the outward glorious skies, — 
So the immortal spirit may. 
When descended to our clay, 



From a rightly governed frame 

View the height from vheiico she came ;- 

To her Paradise be caught, 

And thiugs unutterable taught ! 

Give me, then, in that retreat, — 
Give me, O indulgent Fate! 
For all pleasures left behind 
Contemplations of the mi»(l. 
Let the fair, the gay, the vain 
Courtship and applause obtain ; 
Let the ambitious rule the earth ; 
Let the giddy fool have mirth ; 
Give the epicure his dish, 
Every one his sevei'al wish; 
Whilst mil transports I employ 
On that more extensive joy. 
When all heaven shall be surveyed 
From those windiniis and that shade! 

iJljomas (ticlu-ll. 

Poet and css;\yist, Tickell (1(130-1740) was born near 
C;uiisle, and educated at Oxford. Through the friend- 
ship of Addison, he became Under- secretary of SlMtc, 
and Wiis afterward a|>pointed Secretary to the Lord-jua- 
ticcs of Ireland. He wrote the balhid of "Colin and 
Lucy," one stanza from which is still often quoted : 
"I heiir a voice you canuot hear, 
Which s:iy8 I must not stay : 
I see a hand you cauiiot see, 
Which beckons rae away." 

He wrote an allegorical poem, called " Kensington Gar- 
dens," besides many papers in the Spectator and the 
Guardian. His lines on the death of Addison are the 
best of his poems. Gray calls him "a poor, short-winded 
imitator of Addison." 


If, dumb too long, the dropping Muse hath stayed, 
Aud left her debt to Addison unpaid. 
Blame not her sllcuce, Warwick, but bemoan. 
And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own ! 
What mourner e\er felt poetic fires ? 
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : 
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, 
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
Jly soul's best part forever to the grave ? 
How silent did his old companions tread. 
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
Through rows of warriors and through walks of 
kings ! 

What awe did the slow, solemn knell Inspire ; 
The pealing organ and the pausing choir : 
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid, 
And the last words that dust to dust conveyed ! 

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone 
(Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown), 
Along the walls where speaking marbles ?ihow 
What worthies form the hallowed uionlct below ; 
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held. 
In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ; 
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
Stern i)atriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
Jnst men, by whom impartial laws were given; 
And saints, who taught aud led the way to heaven. 
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ; 
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. 

In what new region to the just assigned, 
What new employments please the uubodied mind? 
A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, 
From world to world uuwearied docs he fly? 
Or curious trace the long, laborious maze 
Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? 
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
How Michael battled, aud the dragon fell; 
Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow 
In hymns of love, not ill essayed below ? 
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
A task well suited to thy gentle mind? 
Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend! 
When rage misguides me, or wlien fear alarms ; 
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms. 
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart. 
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before. 
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. 

vllcfanticr ^opc. 

The only chikl of a London linen-draper, Pope (16SS- 
1744) was bred a Roman Catholic: hence he was disqual- 
itied for entering an English university. He spent his 
childhood on the small estate of Binfleld, in Windsor 
Forest. A delicate and deformed youth, he received in- 
struction at two Catholic schools; but after twelve years 
of age became his own instructor, and at fifteen went to 
London alone, to take lessons in French aud Italian. 
He had "lisped in numbers" so early that he could not 
recollect the time when he did not write poetry. Before 
he was twelve, the little invalid had written his " Ode on 



Solitiidc.'' His fatlicr encouraged his tastes; and Pope's 
life as an autlior dates from liis sixteentli yeai', wlien he 
wrote liis "Pastorals," whicli were praised far beyond 
their deserts. His "Essay on Criticism," piililished when 
lie was twenty-three, is in a hiirher strain. It has lived, 
and will continue to live, in spite of the depreciatory es- 
timates of De Quincey and Elwin. 

Other works followed in quick succession, the prin- 
cipal of which were his "Messiah," "Odes," "Windsor 
Forest," "Essay on Man," "Rape of the Lock," the 
matchless "Eloisa to Abelard," and "The Dunciad." 
His most laborious literary undertaSiui^ was his transla- 
tion of Homer. Of this the great scholar, Bentley, re- 
marked, in return for a presentation copy, "It is a pret- 
ty poem, Mr. Pope, but you must not call it Homer." 
By this work Pope realized above £5000, part of which 
he laid out in the purchase of a house with five acres at 
Twickenham, to which he removed with his aged moth- 
er in 171.5. He was never married. 

Pope is a poet of the intellect rather than of nature 
and the emotions. The nineteenth century raised tlie 
question, contested by Bowles on the adverse side, and 
Roseoe on tlie other, whether Pope was a poet at all. 
Woi-dsworth thought poorly of him ; but Wordsworth 
had no wit, and wit is the predominant element in Pope. 
" There can be no worse sign for the taste of the times," 
says Byron, " than the depreciation of Pope, the most 
perfect of our poets, and the purest of our moralists. * * * 
In my mind, the highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, 
as the highest of all earthly objects must be moral 

"In spite of the influences," says Mr. John Dennis 
(1870), "at work during the earlier years of this century, 
tending to lessen the poetical fame of Pope, his reputa- 
tion has grown, and is still growing." And Mr. John 
Ruskin, in his lectures on Art, after referring to Pope as 
one of the most accomplished artists in literature, adds: 
" Putting Shakspeare aside as rather the world's than 
ours, I hold Pope to be the most perfect representative 
we have, since Cliaueer, of the true English mind." 

The "Rape of the Lock" is a brilliant specimen of the 
mock-heroic style. The "Essay on Man" is a singular- 
ly sucees^ful effort to weave ethical philosophy into poe- 
try. The argument seems directly intended to meet the 
form of doubt prevalent at the time, and which brought 
into question not only the divine justice, but the divine 

Jealousy of his marvellous success involved Pope in a 
literary warfare, the evidences of which are abundantly 
exhibited in iiis later writings. By some critics his 
"Uuuciad" is regarded as his greatest cflbrt. Full of 
wit and power as it is, however, it is little read in our 
day. Such a war upon the dunces should have been be- 
neath the nature and the dignity of a true poet. Pope 
ought never to have soiled his hands with the dirt of 
Grub Street. 

A constant stale of excitement, added to a life of 
ceaseless study and contemplation, operating on a fee- 
ble frame, completely exhausted the powers of Pope be- 
fore his tifly-seventh year. He complained of his inabil- 
ity to think ; yet a short time before his death he said, 
"I am so certain of the soul's being immortal that I 
seem to feel it in me, as it were, by intuition." Another 

of his dying remarks was, " There is nothing that is mer- 
itorious but virtue and friendship ; and, indeed, friend- 
ship itself is only a part of virtue." 

Pope's example teaches us that the patient labor of 
the artist must supplement genius for the production 
of works of enduring fame. This is a lesson whicli some 
even of the popular poets of our day, who "say what 
they feel without considering what is tittiug to be said," 
very much need. 



Happy the man ■whose wish and care 

A few paternal acres hound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his own ground : herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

■Whose lloeks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees iu summer yiehl him shade, 
In winter fire : 

Blest, who can nnoonceru'dly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away ; 
111 health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day: 

Sound sleep by night, study and ease, 

Together mixt, sweet recreation; 
And innocence, which most does please, 
With meditation. 

Tims let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus, nnlameuted, let me die, 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 


But most by numbers judge a poet's song; 
And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong. 
In the bright Muse though thousand charms con- 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire, 
Who haunt Parna.ssus bnt to please their ear. 
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, 
Not for the doctrine, bnt the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require. 
Though oft the oar the open vowels tire ; 
While expletives their feeble aid do join. 
And ten low words oft creep iu one dull line : 



While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, 
With sure returns of still-expected rhymes. 
Where'er you find the "cooliug western breeze," 
III the uext line it "whispers through the trees;" 
If crystal streams " with pleasing murmurs creep," 
The reader's threateued (not in vain) with "sleep ;" 
Tiien at the last and only couplet, fraught 
With some unmeaning tiling they call a thought, 
A needless Alexaudriue ends the song. 
That, like a wounded suake, drags its slow length 

Leave such to tunc their own dull rhymes, and 

Wliat's roundly smooth or langnishingly slow. 
And praise the casj' vigor of .a lino 
Wliere Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness 

True ease iu writing comes from art, not chance, 
As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence ; 
The souud must seem an echo to the sense : 
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows. 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; 
lint when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw. 
The line too labors, and the words move slow ; 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain. 
Flics o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the 


From " Tue Essay on Man," Epistle I. 

Awake, my St. John ! leave all meaner things 
To low ambition and the pride of kings. 
Let us (since life can little more supply 
Thau just to look about us and to die) 
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man : 
A mighty maze ! but uot without a plan ; 
A wild, where weeds and llowers promiscuous shoot; 
Or garden, tempting witli forbidden fruit. 
Together let us beat this ample field, 
Try what the open, what the covert, yield ; 
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore, 
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; 
Eye Nature's walks, shoot Fidly as it flies. 
And catch the manners living as they rise ; 
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, 
But vindicate the ways of God to man. 

Say, first, of God abovOj or mau below. 
What cau we reason but from what we know ? 

Of man, what see we but his station here 
From which to reason, or to which refer ? 
Through worlds unnumbered though the God be 

'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. 
He who through vast immensity cau pierce. 
See worlds on worlds compose one universe ; 
Observe how system into system runs, 
Wliat other planets circle other suns, 
What varied being peojjles every star, — 
May tell why Heaveu has made us as we are. 
But of this frame, the bearings and the ties, 
Tlie strong connections, nice dependencies, 
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 
Looked through ? or cau a part coutaiii the whole ? 
Is the great chain that draws all to agree, 
And, ilrawu, supports, upheld by God or thee ? 

Presumptuous mau ! the reason wouldst thou 
Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind ? 
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess 
Why formed uo weaker, blinder, and no less. 
Ask of thy mother Earth why oaks are made 
Taller and .stronger than the weeds they shade ; 
Or ask of yonder argent fields above 
Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove. 

Of systems possible, if 'tis coufest 
That Wisdom Infinite must form the best. 
Where all unist full, or uot coherent be, 
Aiul all that rises, rise iu due degree ; 
Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis jdain 
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man : 
And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) 
Is only this — If God has placed him wrong. 

Respecting man, whatever wrong we call 
May, must, be right, as relative to all. 
In hnmau works, though labored on with pain, 
A thousaud movements scarce one purpose gain ; 
In God's, oue single can its end i>roduce. 
Yet serves to second, too, some other use. 
So mau, who here seems principal alone, 
Perhaps acts secoud to some sphere unknown. 
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal : 
'Tis but a part we see, and uot .a whole. 

When the jirond steed shall know why man re- 
His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains ; 
Wlieu the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod. 
Is now .a victim, and uow Egypt's god; 
Then shall man's pride and duluess comprehen<l 
His actions', passions', being's, use and end ; 
Why doing, suffering ; checked, impelled ; and wlij- 
This hcmr a slave, the next a deity. 



Then say not man's imperfect, Heaveu in fault ; 
Say, ratlicr, man's as perfect as he oiigbt ; 
His knowledge measiueil to bis state anil place, 
His time a moment, and a point Lis space. 

See, throHgh this air, this ocean, and this earth, 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may go ! 
Around, how wide ! how deep extend below I 
Vast chain of being, which from God began, — 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man. 
Beast, bird, tish, insect — what no eye can see, 
No glass can reach, — from infinite to thee, 
From thee to nothing ! On superior powers 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 
Or in the full creatiuii leave a void, 
■\Vhere, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed : 
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike. 
Tenth or ten-thousaudth, breaks the chain alike. 

And if each system in gradation roll. 
Alike essential to the amazing whole, 
The least confusion but in one, not all 
That system only, but the whole, nnist fall. 
Let Earth, unbalanced, from her orbit fly ; 
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky : 
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, 
IJeiug on being wrecked, and world on world ; 
Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, 
And Nature trembles to the throne of God ! 
All this dread order break ? For whom ? for thee ? 
Vile worm ! O madness ! pride ! impiety ! 

What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread, 
Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the hea<l ? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear, repined 
To servo mere engines to the ruling mind? 
.Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another in this general frame ; 
.Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains 
The great directing Mind of all ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whide, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same. 
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame ; 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms iu the trees : 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, oi)erates unspent. 
Breathes iu our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He tills, lie bounds, connects, and equals all. 

Cease, then, nor order imperfection name ; 
Our proper bliss depends on what wo blame. 
Know thy own point : this kind, this duo degree 
Of blindness, weakness, He.aven bestows on thee. 
Submit ! — in this or any other sphere 
Secure to bo as blest as thou canst bear; 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal or the mortal hour. 
All nature is but art unknown to thee ; 
All chance, direction which thou canst not see; 
All discord, harmony not understood ; 
All partial evil, universal good : 
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, 
One truth is clear — Wn.iTEVEn is, is liiGiiT. 


'■Sliut, shut the door, good John," fatigued I said; 
" Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead !'' 
The dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt. 
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out : 
Fire iu each eye, and i>apcrs in each hand, 
Tliey rave, recite, aud m.adden round the land. 
What walls can guard me, or what shades can 

Tluy pierce my thickets, through my grot they 

glide ; 
By laud, by water, they renew the charge; 
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 
No place is sacred, not tlie church is free. 
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me ; 
Then from the Mint' walks forth the man of 

Happy to catch me just at diinier-time. 

Is there a parson, much be-niused in beer, 
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 
A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, 
Who pens a stanza when he should engross? 
Is there who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls 
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? 
All fly to Twickenham, aud iu humble strain 
Apply to me to keep them mad or vain. 
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws. 
Imputes to me and my dannicd works the cause: 
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 
Aud curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. 

Friend to my life (which did not you prolong. 
The world had wanted many an idle song), 

' A pinco to which iusulveut debtors retired to enjciy au il- 
legnl protectiou. 



'. !;ai drop or nostrum can tliis plague remove? 
wliicli nmst end nie, a fool's wrath or love ! 
iiir. dilemma! either way I'm sped; 
j>(>,, they write; if friends, they read nie dead. 

■ ,cii! and tied down to judge, how wretched I! 
i.> ean't be silent, and who will not lie. 

■ laugh were want of goodness and of grace, 
■1 to bo grave exceeds all power of face. 

■it with sad civility, I read 
With honest anguish and an aching head, 
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, 
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." 
" Nino years !" cries he, who, high in Drnry Lane, 
Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, 
I Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, 
Obliged by hunger and request of friends: 
"The piece, you think, is iucorrect ? why take it; 
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it." 
Tliree things another's modest wishes bound; 
I " My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound." 
f Pitholeon sends to me ; " You know his grace : 
I want a patron ; ask him for a place." 
Pitholeon libelled me, — '' But here's a letter 
Informs you, sir, 'twas when ho knew no better. 
Dare yon refuse him, Cnrll invites to dine? 
He'll write a journal, or he'll tnru divine !" 

Bless me! a packet. — " 'Tis a stranger sues, 
A virgin tragedy, an orphan nmse." 
If I dislike it, "Furies, death, and rage;" 
If I approve, "Commend it to the stage." 
Tliere (thank my stars) my whole commission ends; 
The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 
Fired that the house reject him, "'Sdeath, I'll print 

And shame the fools, — your interest, sir, with Lin- 
Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too much: 
"Not, sir, if you revise it and retouch." 
All my demurs but double his attacks : 
At last he whispers, " Do, and we go snacks." 
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, 
" Sir, let me see your works and you no more !" 

* ■ » * * rf » 

Why did I write ? What sin to me unknown 
Dipped me in ink, — my jiarents', or my own ? 
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came : 
I left no calling for this idle trade. 
No duty broke, no father disobeyed : 
The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife; 
To help me through this long disease, my life. 
To second, Arbnthnot ! thy art and care. 
And teach the being you preserved to bear. 

Canto I. 

And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed. 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores. 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenlj' image in the glass appears, , 
To that sho bends, to that her eyes she rears ; 
The inferior priestess, at her altar's side. 
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of Pride. 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
The various otfcrings of the world appear; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil. 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite. 
Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
Pnifs, powders, patches,' Bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful Beauty inits on all its arms; 
The fair each moment in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace. 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face : 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darling care : 
These set the head, and those divide the hair ; 
Some fold the sleeve, while others iilait the gown ; 
Aud Betty's praised for labors not her own. 

Canto II. 

Nor with more glories, in the etliereal plain, 
The sun first rises o'er the jjurpled main, 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
Fair nymphs and well-dressed youth around her 

But every eye was fixed on her alone. 

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore. 
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore ; 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends : 
Oft she rejects, but never once offeuds. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride. 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: 

' Strangely amoug onr graiidniothers reckoued oruaments 
to beaiuy. 



It" to lier share some female errors fall, 
Look on her face, aud you'll forget them all. 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Nourished two locks, -nhich graceful hung beliind 
In equal curls, and well couspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 
Aud mighty hearts are held in sleuder chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray, 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey. 
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, 
Aud beauty draws us with a single hair. 


Father of all! iu every age. 

In every clime, adored. 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Tliou great First Cause, least understood. 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that thou art good, 

And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 
And, binding nature fast in fate, 

Left free the human will: — 

What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns me not to do. 
This teach me more than hell to shun. 

That more than heaven pursue. 

What blessiugs thy free bouuty gives. 

Let me not cast away ; 
For God is paid when man receives: 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span • 
Thy goodness let mo bound ; 

Or think thee Lord alone of man. 
When thousand worlds arc round. 

Lot not tliis weak, unknowing hand 
Presume thy bolts to throw, 

Aud deal danm.itiou round the land 
On each I judge thy foe. 

If 1 am right, thy grace impart 
Still iu the right to stay; 

If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart 
To liiid that better way. 

Save nie alike from foolish pride, 

Or impious discontent ; 
At aught thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe ; 

To hide the fault I see; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so, 
Since quickened by thy breath ; 

Oh, lead me, wheresoe'er I go, — 
Through this day's life or death. 

This day, be bread and peace my lot: 

All else beneath the sun 
Thou Unow'st if best bestowed or not. 

And let thy will be done. 

To thee, whose temple is all space, altar, earth, sea, skies! 

One chorus let all being raise ; 
All nature's incense rise! 


This ode was partly suggested by the followiug Hues, written 
by the Emperor Adriau : 


Auimiila, vagula, blaudubi, 
Ilospes Comesque Corporis, 
Qu:e luiuc abibis in loca, 
PnlIi(Uila, rij^ida, nudulaf 
Nee, ul soles, dabis joca. 

Pope's lines were composed at the request of Steele, wlio wrote : 
"This is to desire of you that you would please to make an 
ode as of a cheerful, dying spirit : that is to say, the Emperor 
Adrian's animiila vagula put into two or three stanzas for mu- 
sic." Pope replied with the three stanzas below, and says to 
Steele in a letter, "Yon have it, as Cowley calls it, warm from 
the brain. It came to me the first moment I waked this morn- 

Vital spark of heavenly flame. 
Quit, oh ([uit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, iiying, 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life. 

Hark! they whisper; angels say, 
Sister spirit, eomo away. 



Wli:it is tliis absorbs me quite, 

Steals uiy senses, shuts my siglit, 
Drowns my spirits, draws mj' breatli ? 
Tell me, my soul, cau this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ; 
Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 
Lend, lend your wings! I iiu)uut! I fly! 
O grave ! where is thy victory f 

O death ! where is thy sting ? 


lu these deep solitudes and awful cells. 
Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells, 
And ever-musing Melancholy reigus ; 
What means this tumult iu a vestal's veins ? 
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat ? 
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat ? 
Yet, yet I love ! — From Abelard it came, 
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. 

Dear, fatal name! rest ever unrevealed, 
Xor pass these lips iu holy silence sealed : 
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
Where, mixed with God's, his loved idea lies : 
Oh, write it not, my baud — the name appears 
Already written — wash it out, my tears ! 
In vain lost Elo'isa weeps and prays. 
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. 

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains 
Repentant sighs and voluntary i)ains : 
Ye rugged rocks ! which holy knees have worn : 
Ye grots and caverns shagged with horrid thorn ! 
Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep; 
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weeji ! 
Though cold like .you, unmoved and silent grown, 
I have not yet forgot myself to stone. 
All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part. 
Still rebel Nature holds out half my heart ; 
Xor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, 
Xor tears, for ages taught to How in vain. 

Soou as thy letters trembling I unclose. 
That well-known name awakens all my woes. 
Oh, name forever sad! forever dear! 
Still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear. 
I tremble too, where'er my own I find. 
Some dire misfortune follows close behind. 
Line after line my gushiug eyes o'erflow, 
L.ed through a sad variety of woo : 
Now warm in love, now withering iu my bloom. 
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! 

There stern Religion quenched th' unwilling flame. 
There died the best of passions, love and fame. 

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join 
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. 
Nor foes uor Fortune take this power away ; 
And is my Abelard less kind than they t 
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare. 
Love but demands what else were shed iu prayei : 
X'o happier task these faded eyes pursue ; 
To read and weep is all they now cau do. 

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; 
Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. 
Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid. 
Some b.auished lover, or some captive maid ; 
They live, they speak, thej' breathe what love in- 

Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, 
The virgin's wish without her fears impart, 
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart. 
Speed the soft from soul to soul. 
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. 


What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy. 

The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, 

Is Virtue's prize : A better would you fix ? 

Then give Humility a coach and six. 

Justice a conqueror's sword, or Truth a gown. 

Or Public Spirit its great cure, a crown. 

Weak, foolish man ! will Heaven reward «s there 

With the same trash mad mortals wish for here ' 

The boy and man an individual makes, 

Y'et sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes? 

Go, like the Indian, in another life 

Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife ; 

As well as dream such trifles are assigned. 

As toys and empires, for a godlike mind ; 

Rewards, that either would to virtue bring 

No joy, or be destructive of the thing; 

How oft by these at sixty are undone 

The virtues of a saint at twenty-one ! 

To whom can riches give repute, or trust. 

Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? 

Judges aud senates have been bought for gold ; 

Esteem aud love were never to bo sold. 

O fool ! to think God hates the worthy mind. 

The lover aud the love of humau-kind, 

Whose life is healthful, aud whose conscieuce 

Because he wants a thousand pounds a year! 



Honor and sbame from no condition rise ; 
Act well your part, tliere all the honor lies. 
Fortune in men has some small diSereuce made, 
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade ; 
The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, 
Tlie friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. 
"What differ more,'' you cry, "than crown and 

cowl .'■' 
I'll tell you, friend ! a wise man and a fool. 
You'll find, if once the mouarcli acts the monk. 
Or, cobbler-like, the parson ■will be drunk. 
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow ; 
The rest is all but leather or prunella. 

^ * --^ 7? ^ » 

Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood 

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the Flood, 

Go ! and pretend your family is young ; 

Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. 

What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? 

Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards. 

Look next on greatness ; say, where greatness 
lies : 
"Where but among the heroes and the ■wise?" 
Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed. 
From Macedonia's madman to the Swede ; 
The Avhole strange purpose of their lives, to find. 
Or make, an enemy of all mankind ! 
Not one looks back^^'ard, onw.ard still he goes. 
Yet ne'er looks forward furtlier than his nose. 
No less alike the politic and w-iso : 
All sly slow things, witli circumspective eyes: 
Men in their loose, nngnardi^l hours they take; 
Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. 
But grant that those can conquer, these can 

cheat : 
'Tis absurd to call a villain great ; 
Wlio wickedly is wise, or madly brave. 
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. 
Who noble ends by noble means obtains. 
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains. 
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed 
Lilic Socrates, that man is great indeed. 

What's fame ? a fancied life in others' breath, 
A tiling beyond n.s, ev'n before onr deatli. 
.Just what you licar, you liave ; and what's un- 
Tlie same, my lord, if Tully's, or your own. 
All that we feel of it begins and ends 
In the small circle of our foes or friends ; 
To all beside as much an empty shade 
An Eugene living, as a Cajsar dead; 
Alike or when, or where they shone, or shine. 
Or on the Kubicon, or on the Rhine. 

A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod : 

An honest man's the noblest work of God. 

Fame but from death a villain's name can save, 

As Justice tears his body from the grave ; 

When what t' oblivion better were resigned, 

Is hung on high to poison half mankind. 

All fame is foreign, but of true desert; 

Plays round the head, but coraes not to the heart: 

One self-approving hour wlude years outweighs 

Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas; 

And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels, 

Than Caisar with a senate at his heels. 

In parts superior what advantage lies? 
Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? 
'Tis but to know how little can be known ; 
To see all others' faults, and feel our own : 
Condemned in business or in arts to drudge, 
Without a second, or without a judge: 
Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land ? 
All fear, noue aid you, and few understand. 
Painful pre-eminence ! yourself to view 
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too. 

liring, then, these blessings to a strict account; 
Make fair deductions ; see to what they mount : 
How much of other each is sure to cost ; 
How much for other oft is wholly lost ; 
How inconsistent greater goods with these; 
How sometimes life is risked, and always ease : 
Think, and if still the things thy envy call, 
Say, wonldst thou bo the man to whom they fall? 
To sigh for ribbons, if thou art so silly, 
Mark liow they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy. 
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? 
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife. 
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined. 
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind : 
Or, ravished with the whistling of a name. 
See Cromwell, danmed to everlasting fame ! 

* # Jf * i< # 

Know, then, this truth (enough for man to know), 
"Virtue alone is happiness below;" 
The only point where human bliss stands still, 
And tastes the good without the fall to ill; 
Where only merit constant jiay receives. 
Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives; 
The joy nncqualled, if its end it gain. 
And if it lose, attended with uo pain ; 
Without satiety, though e'er so blest. 
And but more relished as the more distressed: 
The broadest mirth nnfeeling Folly wears. 
Less pleasing far than Virtue's very tears ; 
Good, from each object, from each place, acquired, 
Forever exercised, yet never tired ; 



Never elated while (uio iiiau's oppressed ; 
Never dejected while another's blest; 
And where no wants, no wishes can remain, 
Since bnt to wish more virtue is to gain. 

See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow ! 
Which who but feels cau taste, but thinks can 

Yet poor witli fortune, and with learning blind, 
Tlio bad must miss, the good, uutanght, will lind ; 
Slave to uo sect, who takes uo private road. 
But looks through Nature up to Nature's God ; 
Pursues that chain which links th' immense design. 
Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine ; 
Sees that uo being any bliss can know 
But touches some above and some below ; 
Learns from this union of the rising whole 
Tlie tirst, last jiurposo of the human soul ; 
And knows where faith, law, morals all began, 
All end in love of God and love of man. 
For him alone Hope leads from goal to goal, 
And opens still, and opens on his soul ; 
Till, lengthened on to Faith, and unconl'ined. 
It iiours the bliss that fills up all the mind. 
He sees why Nature plants in man alone 
Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unkuov.n 
(Nature, whose dictates to uo other kind 
Are given in Yaiu, but what they seek they lind): 
Wise is her present; she connects in this 
His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss ; 
At once his own bright prospect to be blest, 
And strongest motive to assist the rest. 

Self-love, thus puslied to social, to divine, 
Gives thee to make thy neighbor's blessing thine. 
Is this too little for the boundless heart? 
E.vtend it, let thy enemies have part. 
Grasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense 
In one close system of benevolence ; 
Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree, 
And height of bliss but height of charity. 

God loves from whole to parts ; but human soul 
Must rise from individual to the whole. 
Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake. 
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake : 
The centre moved, a, circle straight succeeds, 
Another still, and still another spreads ; 
Friend, parent, neighbor, first it will embrace; 
Ilis conntrj' next, and next all human race ; 
Wide and more wide, th' o'erflowings of the mind 
Take every creature in, of every kind ; 
Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, 
And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. 

Come, then, my friend! my genius! come along! 
Oh master of the poet and the soug! 

And while the Mnse now stoops, or now ascends. 
To man's low passions, or their glorious ends, 
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, 
To fall with dignitj', with temper rise ; 
Formed by thy converse, happily to steer, 
From grave to gay, from lively to severe ; 
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease ; 
Intent to reason, or polite to please. r 
Oh, while along the stream of time thy uame 
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, 
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, 
Pursue the triumph, .ind partake the gale ? 
When statesmen, heroes, kiug.s, in dust repose. 
Whose sous shall blush their fathers were thy foes. 
Shall then this verso to future ago pretend 
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? 
That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art. 
From sounds to tilings, from fancy to the heart 1 
For Wit's false mirror held up Nature's light ; 
Showed erring Pride, Whatever is, is kigiit ; 
That reason, passion, answer one great aim ; 
That true self-love and social are the same ; 
That virtue only mal;es our bliss below ; 
And all our knowledge is ourselves to know ?' 


I-HOM " To A Lady," Epistle II. 

Ah ! friend, to dazzle let the vain design ; 
To raise tlio thought and touch the heart be thine! 
That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the ring 
Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing : 
So, when the Sun's broad beam has tired the sight, 
All mild ascends the Moon's more sober light. 
Serene in virgin modesty she shines, 
And unobserved the glaring orb declines. 

Oh ! blest with temper, whoso unclouded ray 
Can mako to-morrow cheerful as to-day : 
She, who cau love a sister's charms, or hear 
Sighs for a daughter with unwouuded ear ; 
She who ne'er answers till a husband cools, 
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules ; 
Cliarms by accepting, by submitting sways, 
Yet has her humor most wlieu she obeys ; 
Lets fops or fortune lly which way they will, 
Disdains all loss of tickets or codille ; 
Spleen, vapors, or small-pox, above them all. 
And mistress of herself, though china fall. 

Aud yet, believe me, good as well .as ill, 
Woman's at best a contradiction still. 

^ The "E-'^say on Man" is in fuur epistles, addressed to 
Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke. 



Heavcu, wIil'h it strives to iiolisli all it cau 

Its last best work, but forms a softer man ; 

Picks froui each sex, to make the favorite blest, 

Vour love of pleasure, our desire of rest: 

Bleuds, iu exception to all general rules, 

Your taste of follies with onr scorn of fools : 

liescrve with frankness, art with truth allieil. 

Courage with softness, modesty with pride; 

Fixed priuciples, with fancy ever new; 

Sliakes all together, and produces — yon. 

lie this a woman's fame! with this unblest. 

Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest. 

Tills Phcebus promised (I forget the year) 

When those blue eyes iirst opened on the sphere ; 

.\seendaut rhoebiis watched that hour 'with care, 

.V verted half your parents' simple prayer ; 

And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf 

That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself. 

The generous god, who gold and wit reflues. 

And ripens spirits as he ripens mines. 

Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it. 

To you gave seuse, good humor, and a poet. 

" CATO." 

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art. 
To the genius, aud to mend the heart; 
To make mankind in couscious virtue bold. 
Live o'er each .scene, and be what they l)ehold-. 
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage. 
Commanding tears to stream through every age ; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
Aud foes to Virtue woudercd how they wept. 
Our author shuns by vulgar spriugs to move 
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love ; 
In pitying Love, vre bnt our weakness show. 
And wild Ambition well deserves its woe. 
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 
He bids your breasts with ancient ardor vise. 
And calls forth Roman drops from ISritish i-yes. 
Virtue confessed in human shape ho draws, 
"What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : 
No common object to your sight displays. 
But what witli pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 
Aud greatly falling with a falling state. 
While Cato givte his little senate laws, 
What bo.som beats not iu his country's canse ? 
Who sees him act, but envies every ileed ? 
WIio hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? 

Even when proud Caesar midst triumphal cars, 
Tlie spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars. 
Ignobly vain, and impoteutly great. 
Showed Rome her Cato's figure drawn iu state ; 
As her dead father's reverend image ijast, 
The pomp was darkened, aud the day o'ercast ; 
Tlie triumph ceased, tears gushed from every eye ; 
Tlio world's great victor passed unheeded by ; 
Her last good man dejected Rome adored, 
Aud honored C;esar's less than Cato's sword. 

Britons, attend : bo worth like this approved. 
And show yon have the virtue to be moved. 
With honest scorn the first famed Cato viewed 
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; 
Your scene precariously subsists too long 
On French translatiou, and Italian song. 
Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage, 
Be justly warmed with your own native rage ; 
Such plays alone should win a British ear, 
As Cato's self had not disdained to hear. 


Translated from Hosier. 

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night. 
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, 
Wheu not a breath disturbs the deep serene. 
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene, 
Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole; 
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, 
And tip with silver every mountain's head ; 
Then shine the vales, the rocks iu prospect rise, 
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies : 
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight. 
Eye the blue vault, aud bless the useful light. 


Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favors call : 

She comes nnlooked for, if she comes at all. 

But if the purchase cost so dear a price 

As soothing folly, or exalting vice, — 

Oh ! if the muse nuist Hatter lawless sway, 

.\ud follow still whore fortune leads the way, — 

Or if no basis bear my rising name. 

But the fallen ruins of another's fame, — 

Then teach me. Heaven ! to scorn the guilty bays. 

Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise; 

Unblemished let me live, or die unknown : 




Wheu Pope first came to town, a boy nnd little known, he 
cnui'ted Addison, and wrote an admirable prolo^^ue fur his 
"Cato." Gradually a coolness arope between them. Some 
think that Addison was jealons of I'ope's brightening fume; 
but it is far more probalde that Pope, whose peevish temper 
Avas the accompaniment of a sickly frame, took ofl'ence at fan- 
cied wrongs. His ''portrait" of Addison must, therefore, be 
regarded more as a literary cariosity than as an honest like- 
ness. The lines are friim the *' Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot." 

Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires 
Tiiio gcuius kiudles, auil fair fauie iusplres; 
Blest with each talent ami each art to please, 
And Ijorii to write, converse, and live with ease: 
Slioultl such a man, too fond to rule alone. 
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, 
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, 
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; 
Damn with faint jiraise, assent with civil leer. 
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 
Willing to wound, ami yet afraid to strike ; 
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; 
Alike reserved to blame or to commend, 
A timorous foe, and a suspicions friend ; 
Dreading even fools, by llatterers besieged, 
, And so obliging that he ne'er obliged ; 
Like Cato, give his little senate laws, 
And sit attentive to his own appUiuse ; 
Whilst wits and Templars every sentence raise, 
And wonder witli a foolisli face of praise : — 
Who but must laugh if sucli a one there be ? 
Who would not weep if Atticus were he ? 


Site comes ! she comes ! the sable throne behold 

Of Night primeval, and of Chaos old ! 

Before her Fancy's gilded clouds decay, 

And all its varying rainbows die away. 

Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, 

Tlie meteor drops, and in a flash expires. 

As one by one, at dread Meilea's strain. 

The sickening stars fade off the ethereal plain ; 

As Argus' eye, by Hermes' wand opprest. 

Closed one by one to everlasting rest; 

Tlius, at her felt approach, and secret miglit. 

Art after art goes out, and all is night. 

See skulking Truth, to her old caveru fled. 

Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head ! 

Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before. 

Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. 

Pliysic of metaphysic begs defence. 

And uietaiihysic calls for aid on sense! 

See mystery to mathematics fly ! 

In vain ! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. 

Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires, 

And unawares morality expires. 

Nor public flame, nor private dares to shine : 

Nor sp.ark is left, nor glimpse divine ! 

Lo ! thy dread empire. Chaos ! is restored ; 

Light dies before thy uncreating word ; 

Tliy hand, great Anarch ! lets the curtain fall, 

Anil universal darkness buries all. 

iJoljn (l^an. 

A Devonsliire man of good family (1088-1732), Gay 
was first apprenticed to a silk-mcrccr in London. Not 
liking the business, he got his discharge, and commenced 
writing poetrj'. As domestic secretary to the Duchess 
of Monmoutli, he found leisure for literary pursuits. He 
is best known by his "Fables" and his "Beggars' Ope- 
ra." This Uist, produced in 1737, was the great success 
of his life. Swift suggested to Gay the idea of a 
Newgate pastoral. Tliis gave rise to the "Beggars' Op- 
era." It was offered to Gibber, at Drury Lane, and re- 
fused. It was then offered to Rich, at Covent Garden, 
and accepted. Its success gave rise to the saying that 
"it made Rich gay, and Gay rich." It was composed in 
ridicule of the Italian Opera, and had such a run that it 
drove the Italians aw.ay for that season. 

As a poet. Gay hardly rises above mediocrity ; but he 
was the inventor of the English Ballad Opera, and some 
of his "Fables" are excellent, having a philosophical 
and moi'al purpose far beyond that of ordinary verses. 
His " Trivia, or The Art of Walking the Streets of Lon- 
don," lias some witty lines; and his "Epistle to Pope 
on the Completion of his Translation of Homer's Iliad " 
is still worth reading as a rapid sketch of Pope's fasli- 
ionablo acquaintances. The fable of "The Hare and 
Many Friends" is supposed to be drawn from Gay's 
own experience; for he sought court favor, and was 
grievously disappointed. 

Pope says that Gay " w.ts a natural man, without de- • 
sign, who spoke wliat he thought, and just as he thought 
it." Swift was deeply attached to him, and Pope char- 
acterizes Gay as 

"Of manners gentle, of affections mild ; 
In wit, a man ; simplicity, a child." 

Gay's mortal remains were interred in Westminster Ab- 
bey, where a handsome monument erected to his 
memory by the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry. 


All in tlie Downs the fleet was moored, 
The streamers waving in the wind, 

Wlien blaclc-eyed came aboard. 
" Oh, where shall I my true love find ? 



Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. 

It' my sweet William sails amoug the crew." 

William, who, liigli upon the yard. 

Rocked with the billow to and fio. 
Soon as her wcll-lvnown voice ho heard, 
He sighed, and cast his eyes helow : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing 

And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 

Shuts close ijis pinions to his breast. 
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear. 
And drops at once into her nest : 
The noblest captain in the British fleet 
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. 

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear! 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 
Let me kiss off that falling tear; 
W'e only part to meet again. 
Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be 
The faitUful compass that still points to thee. 

" Believe not what the landsmen say. 

Who temjit with doubts thy constant mind. 
They'll tell thee sailor.s. when away, 
In every port a mistress liud : 
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 
For tliiiu art present whorcsoe'er I go. 

" If to fair India's coast we sail. 

Thy ejes are seen in diamonds bright ; 
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 
Thus every beauteous object that I view 
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

"Though battle call mo from thy arms, 

Let not my i)retty Susan mourn ; 
Tiiough cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 
William shall to liis dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that rouu<l mi' lly, 
Lest precious tears should drop from Susau'.- 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 

The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
No longer must she stay aboard : 

Tliey kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 
Her Ir.ssening boat niiwilling i-ows to land : 
"Adieu!" she cries, and waved her lily haml. 

From the " Fables." 

Friendship, like love, is bnt a name. 
Unless to one you stint the flame. 
The child whom many fathers share 
Hath seldom known a father's care. 
'Tis thus in friendship : who depend 
On many, rarely find a friend. 

A Hare, who, in a civil way, 
Complied with everything, like Gay, 
Was known by all the bestial train 
Who haunt the wood or graze the pl:iin : 
Her care was never to offend. 
And every creature was her friend. 

As forth she went at early dawn, 
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn. 
Behind she bears the hunter's cries. 
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. 
Slie starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; 
She hears the near advance of deatli ; 
She doubles, to mislead the hound, 
And measures back her raazy round ; 
Till, fainting in the public way, 
Half dead with fear she gasping lay. 

What transjiort in her bosom grew 
When first the Horse appeared in view ! 

"Let me," says she, "your back ascend, 
And owe my safety to a friend. 
Yon know my feet betray my flight: 
To friendship every burden's light." 

The Horse replied, "Poor honest Puss, 
It grieves my heart to see thee thus : 
Be comforted ; relief is near. 
For all your friends are in the rear." 

She next the stately Bull implored, 
And thus replied the mighty lord : 
"Since every beast alive can tell 
That I sincerely wish you well, 
I may without offence pretend 
To take the freedom of a friend. 
Love calls me hence ; a favorite cow 
Expects mo near yon barley-mow ; 
And when a lady's in the case. 
Yon know, all other things give place. 
To leave you thus might seem unkind, 
But, see, the Goat is just behind." 

The Goat remarked her pulse was high, 
Her languid head, her heavy eye: 
" My back," says he, " may do you harm ; 
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 

The Sheep was feeble, and complained 
His sides a load of wool sustaii\ed; 



Sai(l lie was slow ; eoufessed bis fears, 
For liouuds eat sheep as well as hares. 

She uow tlio trotting Calf adJrcssetl 
To save from death a friend distressed. 

"Shall I," says he, "of tender age. 
In this important care engage ? 
Older and abler passed yon by. 
How strong are those ! how weak am 1 ! 
Should I presnmo to bear you hence, 
Those friends of mine may talio oft'eiico. 
Excuse me, tlien ; you know my heart ; 
I!nt dearest friends, alas ! must part. 
How shall we all lament! Adieu; 
For, see, the hounds are just in view." 

3oljn Sjivom. 

Byrom (1C91-17GIH) was born near Manchester, was ed- 
ucated at Cambridi^e, and studied medicine in France. 
His poetical reputation seems to have oilgiuatcd in a 
pastoral poem, "My time, O ye Muses, was liappily 
spent," published in tlie Spectator, October Otii, 1714, 
and mildly commended by Addison. In reading it uow, 
one is surprised to find tliat so slender a literary invest- 
ment could liave produced such returns of fame. By- 
rom, however, proved liimself capable of better things. 
He invented a system of steuograplij', in teacliing which 
he liad Gibbon and Horace Walpolc for pupils. By the 
death of a brother he at last became heir to the family 
property in Manchester, where lie lived much respected. 
His poems were included by Chalmers in his edition of 
the poets. 


My spirit longeth for thee 
Witliiii my trouliled breast, 

Although I lie uuworthj- 
Of so divine a Gnest. 

Of so divine a Guest 
Unworthy though I be. 

Yet has my heart no rest 
Unless it come from tliee. 

Unless it come from thee. 
In vain I look around; 

In all that I can see 
No rest is to be found. 

No rest is to bo found 
But iu thy blessf'd love: 

Oil, let my wish be crowned, 
And send it fnmi above ! 


Cheer up, desiiouding snnl ! 

Thy longing pleased I see ; 
'Tis part of tliat great whole 

Wherewitli I longed for thee. 

Wlierewith I longed for thee, ._ 
And left my Father's throne, 

From death to set thee free, 
To claim thee for my own. 

To claim thee for my own 
I suffered on the cross. 

Oh, were my love but known, 
No soul could fear its loss. 

No soul could fear its loss. 
But, filled with love divine, 

Would die on its own cross, 
And rise forever mine. 


Faith, Hope, and Love were questioned what they 

Of fnturo glory, which Religion taught. 
Now, Faith believed it firmly to be true. 
And Hope expected so to find it too; 
Love answered, smiling, with .a conscious glow, 
Believe ? expect ? I ktiow it to bo so. 


St. Philip Neri, as old readings say, 

Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day; 

And, being ever courteously inclined 

To give young folks a sober turn of mind, 

He fell into discourse with him ; and thus 

The dialogue they held conies down to us. 

St. P. N. Tell me what brings yon, gentle youth, 
to Rome f 

Youth. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come. 

St. P. X. And when you are one, what do you in- 
tend ? 

Youth. To be a priest, I hope, sir, iu the end. 

St. P. N. Suppose it so, what have you ue.\t in 
view ? 

Youth. That I may get to be a canon too. 

St. r. X. Well, and liow then ? 



Youth. ^^"''yi tlu'ii, fur aiiglit I know, 

I may be made a bisliop. 

.S7. P. X. Be it so, — 

What then ? 

Youth. Why, cardiual's a liigU degree, 

And yet my lot it possibly may be. 

St. P. X. Suppose it was, — what thcu? 

Youth. ^^ liy> wlio can say 

But I've a cliance of being jiope one day? 

.Sf. P. X. Well, having worn the mitre, and red hat. 
And triple crown, what follows after that ? 

Youth. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure, 
Upou this earth that wishing can procure : 
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high 
As long as God shall please, then I must die. 

St. P. X. What! must you die, fond youth? and 
at the best 
But, and hope, and maijhe all the rest? 
Take my advice — whatever may betide. 
For that which must be, first of all provide; 
Then think of that which maij be ; and, indeed, 
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed? 
Who knows but you may then be, as you hope. 
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope t 


Gild bless the king! — I mean the Faith's Defender; 
God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender! 
But who Pretender is, or who is king, — 
God bless us all! — that's qnite another thing. 

illattljcu) (5rfcn. 

Little is known of Matthew Green (1690-1737) except 
tliat lie had his education among the Dissenters, and his 
employment in the London Custom-house. He is re- 
nn'nibered by his poem of "The Spleen;" less known 
than it deserves to be to modern readers. It contains 
less than nine hundred lines ; is full of linppj' expres- 
sions, and evidently the production of a profound, origi- 
nal, and independent thinker. Gr.iy recognized his gen- 
ius, and said of him,'" Even his wood-notes often break 
(Hit into strains of real poetry and music." Aikin, while 
naively objecting to Green's speculating " very freely on 
religious topics," remarks : " It is further attested that 
he was a man of great probity and sweetness of dispo- 
sition, and that his conversation iiboiinded with wit, but 
of the most inoffensive kind. * * * He passed his life in 
celibacy. Few jioems will bear more repeated pei-iisals 
than his ; and with those who can fully enter into them, 
they do not fail to become favorites." The motto on 
the title-page of the original edition (1737) of "The 

Spleen " is : " Orandnm est ut sit mens sana in corpore 
sano." It is "inscribed by the author to his particular 
friend, Mr. C. J." 


This motley piece to you I send. 
Who always were a faithful friend ; 
Who, if disputes should happen hence, 
Can best explain the author's sense; 
And, anxions for the public weal, 
Do, what I sing, so often feel. 

The want of method pray excuse, 
Allowing for a vapored Muse ; 
Nor to a narrow path confined. 
Hedge in by rules a roving mind. 

The child is genuine, you may trace 
Thnnighout the sire's transmitted face. 
Nothing is stolen : my Muse, though mean, 
Draws from the spring she finds within ; 
Nor vainly buys what Gildon' sells, 
Poetic buckets for dry wells. 

Such thoughts as love the gloom of night, 
I close examine by the light; 
For who, though briljcd by gain to lie, 
Dare sunbeam-written truths deny. 
Ami execute plain common-sense. 
On faith's mere hearsay evidence? 

That superstition mayn't create. 
And club its ills with those of fate, 
I many a notion take to task, 
Made dreadful by its visor-mask ; 
Thus scruple, spasm of the mind. 
Is cured, and certainty I lind ; 
Since optic reason shows me plain, 
I dreaded spectres of the braiu ; 
And legendary fears are gone. 
Though in tenacious childhood sown. 
Thus in opinions I eomnieuee 
Freeholder, in the proper sense, 
And neither suit nor service do, 
Nor homage to preteuders show, 
Who boast themselves, by spuri(uis roll. 
Lords of the manor of the soul ; 
Preferring sense, from chin that's bare. 
To nonsense throned in whiskered hair. 

" To thee. Creator nncreate, 
O ICiilium Rus! divinely great!" 

' Gildon pul)lislied (1II8) a "Compiele Art of Poeti-y." lie 
eeenis to have beon a lilernry pretender. Mncaulny spenks of 
liini as "a had wi-itei-." mid as pes-'teriiiij: tiie public "with dog- 
i;erel nud shun". ,"' l*opo ineutious him coutenipluunsly. 



Hold, Muse, nor un-ltiiig' jiiiiioiis try, 

Xor near the bltizing glory fly ; 

Nor, straining, break tliy feeble bow, 

tlufeatliered arrows far to tbrow 

Througli fiekls unknown, nor madly stray, 

Where uo ideas mark the way. 

With tender eyes, and colors faint, 

And trembling bands forbear to paint. 

Wlio, features veiled by light, can hit? 

Wliere can, what lias no ontline, sit? 

My son], the vain attcniiit forego, 

Tliyself, the fitter subject, know. 

He wisely shuns the bold extreme. 

Who soon lays by the unequal theme, 

Nor runs, with Wisdom's sirens caught, 

On quicksands swallowing shipwrecked thought; 

But, conscious of his distance, gives 

Mute praise, and bumble negatives. 

lu One, no object of our sight, 
Iniiuutable, and infinite. 
Who can't be cruel, or unjust, 
C'nlni and resigned, I lis my trust; 
To Him my past and present state 
I owe, and must my future fate. 
A stranger into life I'm come, 
Dying may be our going home: 
Transijorted here by angry fate, 
Tlie convicts of a prior state. 

Hence, I no anxious thoughts bestow 
On matters I can never know : 
Through life's foul way, like vagrant, passed, 
He'll grant a settlement at last ; 
And with sweet ease the wearied crown, 
By leave to lay bis being down. 
If doomed to dance the eternal round 
Of life, no sooner lost but found, 
And dissolution, soou to come. 
Like sponge, wipes out life's present sum, 
But can't our state of power bereave 
An endless series to receive ; 
Then, if hard dealt with here by fate, 
We balance in anotlier state. 
And consciousness must go along, 
And sign th' acquittance for the wrong. 
He for his creatures must decree 
Jlore happiness than misery, 
Or be suppose to create. 
Curious to try, what 'tis to h.ate : 
And do an act, whicli rage infers, 
'Cause lameness halts, or blinduess crr.s. 

Thus, thus I steer my bark, and sail 
On even keel with gentle gale ; 

At helm I make my reason sit, 

My crew of passions all submit. 

If dark .and blustering prove some nights, 

Philosophy puts forth her lights ; 

Experience holds the cautious glass, 

To shun the breakers as I pass, 

And frequent throws the wary lead, 

To see what dangers may be hid: 

And once in seven years I'm seen 

At Bath or Tunbridge, to careen. 

Though pleased to see the dolphins play, 

I mind my compass and my way: 

Witli store sufficient for relief. 

And wisely still prepared to reef; 

Nor wanting the dispersive bowl 

Of cloudy weather in the soul, 

I make (may Heaven propitious send 

Sncli wind and weatlier to tlie end!). 

Neither becalmed nor overblown, 

Life's voyage to the world unknown. 

Holcrt Blair. 

Blair (ir)9!J-17-J6) was a native of Edinburgh, became a 
clergyman, and wrote a poem, vigorous in execution, en- 
titled "The Grave." In it he ignores the poetical as- 
pects of his subject, and revels much in the physically 
repulsive. It was written before the " Night Thoughts " 
of Young, but has little of tlie condensed force of that 
remarkable work. There are, however, flashes 
of poetic fire in Blair's sombre production. He died 
young, of a fever, leaving a numerous family. 


Strength, too ! thou surly, and less gentle boast 
Of tliose that laugh loud at the village ring! 
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down 
With greater ease than e'er thou didst tlie stripling 
That rashly dared thee to the unequal figlit. 
What groan was that I heard? Deep groan, indeed. 
With anguish heavy-laden ! Let me trace it. 
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man, 
By stronger arm belabored, gasps for breath 
Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart 
Beats thick ! his roomy chest by far too scant 
To give the lungs full play! What now avail 
The strong -built, sinewy limbs and well -spread 

shoulders ? 
See how he tugs for life, and laj's about liim. 
Mad with his iiain I Eager he catches hold 
Of what conies next to hand, and grasps it hard. 



Just like :i creatino iliowniiig. Hideous sight ! 
Oh, how his eyes stand out, aud stare full ghastly ! 
While the distemper's rauk aud deadly veuoui 
Shoots like a buruiug arrow 'cross his bowels, 
Aud drinks his marrow up. — Heard you that groau ? 
It was his last. — See how the great Goliatli, 
Just like a child that brawled itself to rest, 
Lies still. 

vlnoniiinous aub illisccUaucous. 


This old ditty wns a favorite with George IV., and it is said 
that he often hud it snng for liis amusement by a band of 
Beikshire ploughmen. It was once a favorite also at Ameri- 
can theatres, where Henry J. Finn, the estimable comedian, 
used to sing it with great ai)p!anse. 

When I was bound apiiroutice 

In famous Liucolusbeer, 
Fidl well I served my master 

For more than seven year, 
Till I took up with poaching. 

As you sliall quickly hear : — 
Oil ! 'tis my delight of a shiny uight 

In the season of the year. 

As me aud my comrades 

Were setting of a snare, 
'Twjis then we seed the game-keeper — 

For him we did iiot care ; 
For we can wrestle aud fight, my hoys. 

And jump o'er everywhere: — 
Oil ! 'tis my deliglit of a shiny uight 

111 the season of the year. 

As me and my comrades 

Were setting four or five, 
Aud taking on him up again, 

Wo caught the hare alive; 
We caught the hare alive, my boys. 

And through the woods did steer: — 
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny uight 

lu the season of the year. 

l!ad link to every magistrate 

That lives in Liucolushecr ; 
Success to every poacher 

That wants to sell a hare ; 
liad luck to every game-keeper 

That will not sell liis dcun- : — 
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night 

In the season of the year. 


This weird Ifltle ballad belongs, probably, to the 17th centu- 
ry. It was communicated to Scott by Mr. Sharpe, .as written 
down from tradition by a lady. 

As I was walking all alane 

I heard twa corbies' making a maue ; 

The taue unto the t'other say, 

"Where sail wo gang aud dine to-day?" 

"In behint yon anld faiP dyke 
I wot there lies a new-slain knight; 
Aud naebody kens that he lies there 
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. 

"His lionnd is to the hunting gane. 
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, 
His lady's ta'eu another luate ; 
So we may mak' our dinner sweet. 

"Ye'U sit on his white liause^-bane, 
Aud I'll pick out his bonny blue een : 
Wi' ae lock o' his gowdeu hair 
We'll tlieek* our uest when it grows bare. 

"Mony a one for him makes mane. 
But n.aue sail ken where he is gane ; 
O'er his white bancs, when they arc bare. 
The wind sail blaw for evermair." 


Thomas D'Urfey (1038-17-23). 

Damon, let a friend advise yon, 
Follow Clores, though she Hies you, 
Tliongh her tongue your suit is slighting, 
Her kiud eyes you'll find inviting: 
Women's rage, like shallow water, 
Does but show their hnrtlcss nature ; 
When the stream seems rough aud frowning. 
There is then least fear of drowning. 

Let mo tell the adventurous stranger. 
In our calmness lies our danger ; 
Like a river's silent running. 
Stillness shows our depth ami cunning: 
She that rails you into trembling, 
Only shows her fine dissembling; 
But the fawner to abuse you 
Thinks you fools, and so will use you. 

1 Crows. 

2 Tmf. 

s Neck. 

* Thatch. 




The authorship is 

From "Plnvrord's Choice Aires," lOGO. 
attribulcd to Richard Broine. 

There wns a jovial beggar, 

Ho had a ^voo^U■n leg, 
Lame from his cradle, 
And forced for to beg. 
And a-begging ■we will go, will go, will go. 
And a-begging wc will go. 

A bag for his oatmeal. 
Another for his salt, 
And a pair of criifehes 
To show that ho can halt. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 

X bag for liis wheat. 

Another for his rye, 
And a little bottle by his side 
To drink when he's a-dry. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 

Sexx'U years I begged 
For my old master Wild, 

He taught me to beg 
Wheu I was but a child, 
we will go, etc. 

I begged for my master. 
And got him store of pelf, 

But Jove now bo praisdd, 
I'm begging for myself, 
we will go, etc. 

In a hollow tree 

I live, and pay uo rent — 
Providence provides for me, 

And I am well content. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 

Of all the occupations 

A beggar's life's the best, 
For, whenever he's a-weary, 
Ho can lay him down to rest. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 

I fear uo plots against me, 

I live in open cell : 
Then who would be a king. 
When beggars live so well ? 
And a-bcggiug we will go, etc. 


Our oats they are howed, and our barley's reaped ; 
Our hay is mowed, and our hovels heaped: 

Harvest-home ! harvest-home ! 
We'll merrily roar out our harvest-home!/ 

Harvest-home ! harvest-home ! "^ 

We'll merrily roar out our harvest-home ! 

We cheated the parson, we'll cheat him again ; 
For why sliould the vicar have one in ten? 

One in ten ! one in ten ! 
For why should the vicar have one in ten ? 
For why should the vicar have one iu ten? 
For staying while dinner is cold and hot, 
And pudding and dumpling's burnt to pot : 

Burnt to pot ! burnt to pot ! 
The pudding and dumpling's burnt to pot ! 

Burut to pot ! burnt to pot ! 

We'll drink oif the liquor while we can stand. 
And hey for the honor of old England ! 

Old England ! old England ! 
And hey for the honor of old England! 

Old England ! old England ! 


Mourn, O rejoicing heart! 

The hours are flying ! 
Each ono some treasure takes. 
Each one some blossom breaks. 

And leaves it dying. 
The chill, darl\ night draws near; 
The snn will soon depart, 

And leave thee sighing. 
Then mourn, rejoicing heart ! 

The hours are flying ! 

Rejoice, O grieving heart! 

The hours fly fast ! 
With each some sorrow dies, 
With each some shadow flies. 

Until, jit last, 
The red dawn in the east 
Bids weary night depart, 

And pain is past! 
Rejoice, then, grieving heart I 

The hours fly fast ! 




Wlicn shall -n-e three meet again ? 
Whcu shall wo three meet again ? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire, 
Oft shall death aud sorrow reign. 
Ere we three shall meet agaiu. 

Tliongh in distant lands we sigh, 
I'arehed heneath a hostile sky; 
Though the deep hetween us rolls. 
Friendship shall unite our souls : 
Still in Fancy's rich domain 
Oft shall we three meet again. 

When the dreams of life are fled, 
AVhen its wasted lamps are dead ; 
When in cold ohlivlon's shade 
Beanty, power, aud fame are laid ; 
Whore immortal spirits reign. 
There shall we three meet again ! 



The English Nntionnl Authera (which, as a merely liter:iry 
Iji-odnction, is hardly euiilled to notice) is generally attributed 
to Dr. John Unll (15'jl), professor of music, Oxford, aud cham- 
ber musician to James I. Henry Carey's sou claimed it as the 
production of his father, whose grauddaughter, Alice Carey, 
was the mother of Edmund Keau, the actor. The germ of the 
song is to be found in one which Sir Peter Carew used to sing 
before Henry Vlll.—Chorns: 

".\nd I said, Good Lord, dcfeud 
England with thy most holy hand, 
Aud save noble Henry oar King." 

God save our gracious King ! 
Long live our noble King ! 

God save the King! 
Scud him victorious, 
Happj' and glorious, 
Long to reign over us ! 

God save the King! 

O Lord our God, arise ! 

Scatter his enemies, 
And make them fall ; 

Confound their politics, 

Frustrate their knavish tricks : 

On him our hopes we fix- 
God save us all ! 

Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour; 

Long may he reign ! 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with heart and voice, 

God save the King ! 


This poem Bishop Percy believes to have been first printed 
in a volume of "Jliscellaneous Poems by Different Hauds," by 
David Lewis (IT'iO). The authorship, though much discussed, 
is as yet unknown. 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing. 

My Winifreda, move your care ; 
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 

Nor siincamish pride nor gloomy fear. 

AVliat though no grants of royal donors 
With pompons title grace our blood ? 

We'll shine in more substantial honors, 
Aud to be uoble we'll be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender. 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis sjioke ; 

And all the great ones they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though from Fortune's lavish bounty 
No mighty treasures we possess? 

We'll find within our pittance plenty. 
And be content without excess. 

Still shall each kind returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give; 
For wo will live a life of reason, 

Aud that's the ouly life to live. 

Through youth and age in love excelling, 
We'll haud-in-haud together tread ; 

Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our be<l. 

How should I love the jirett}' creatures, 
While round my kuecs they fondly clung. 

To see them look their mother's features. 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 

Aud when with envy Time transported 
Shall think to rob us of our joys, 

You'll in your girls agaiu be courted. 
And I'll go wooing in my boys. 




The chorns of this old and favorite sod", taken from " Ram- 
say's Tea-Table Miscellany," has become almost proverbial. 

How pleasaut a sailoi''s life passes, 

Who roams o'er the watery main ! 
No treasure he ever amasses, 

But cheerfully spends all his gain. 
We're strangers to liarty and faction, 

To honor aiul houesty true ; 
And would iu>t coiJmit a bad actiou 
For power or profit in view. 
Then "why should we quarrel for riches, 

Or .any such glittering toys ; 
A light heart, and a thin jiair of breeches, 
W'ill go through the world, my bravo bo\s! 

Tlie world is a beautiful garden, 

Enriched with the blessings of life, 
The toiler with plenty rewarding, 

Which plentj' too often breeds strife. 
When terrible tempests assail us. 

And mountainous billows affright. 
No grandeur or wealth can avail us. 

But industry ever steers right. 
Then why should wo quarrel, etc. 

The courtier's more subject to dangers. 

Who rules at the helm of the State, 
Than we that to politics strangers. 

Escape the snares laid for the great. 
The various blessings of nature, 

In various nations wo try ; 
No mortals than us can be greater, 

Who merrily live till we die. 
Then why should we quarrel, etc. 


The?e lines (1G35), from "Percy's Reliqnes," indicate a p^^)!- 
nlar belief got from S.ixtm ancestors long before they left their 
German forests: a belief in a kind of diminntive demons, or 
middle species between men and spirits, \vhom they called 
Duergars or Dwarfs, and to whom they altribnted many wmm- 
dei'ftil performances far exceeding human art. 

Come follow, follow .me. 

Yon, fairy elves that be : 

Which circle on the greene, 

Come follow Mab your qneene. 
Hand in hand let's dance around, 
For this iilace is fairy ground. 

When mortals are at rest, 

And snoring in their nest ; 

Unheard, and nnespied. 

Through Ueylioles we do glide ; 
Over tables, stools, and shelves. 
We trip it with our fairy elves. 

And if the house be foul 

With platter, dish, or bowl. 

Upstairs we nimbly creep, 

And find the sluts asleep : 
There we pinch their armes and thighs ; 
None escapes, nor none espies. 

But if the house be swept. 

And from nncleanness kept. 

We praise the honsehold maid. 

And duly she is paid : 
For we use before we goe 
To drop a tester in her shoe. 

Upon a niushroonie's head 

Our table-cloth we spread ; 

A grain of rye, or wheat. 

Is manchet,' which we eat ; 
Pearly drops of dew we drink 
In acorn cups filled to the brink. 

The brains of nightingales, 
With unctuous fat of snailes, 
Between two cockles stewed. 
Is meat that's easily chewed ; 
Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice. 
Do make a dish that's wondrons nice. 

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, 

Serve for our minstrelsie ; 

Grace said, we dance awhile. 

And so the time beguile : 
And if the moon doth hide her head. 
The gloe-worin lights us home to bed. 

On tops of dewie grasse 

So nimbly do we passe ; 

The young and tender stalk 

Ne'er bends when we do walk : 
Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 

^ \ loaf or cake of fine bread. Tennyson has this conplet : 

"And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, 
-4nd, in her veil infolded, vianchet bread." 




Henry Fielding (1707-1754). 

Genteel iu personage, 

Conduct, and equipage; 
Noble liy heritage. 

Generous anil free ; 
Brave, not romantic ; 
Learned, not jiedantic ; 
Frolic, not frantic — 

This must he be. 

Honor maintaining, 
Meanness disdaining. 
Still entertaining. 

Engaging and new ; 
Neat, but not finical; 
Sage, but not cynical ; 
Never tyrannical, — 

But ever true .' 



If this fair rose offend tliy sight, 

Placed in thy bosom bare, 
'Tnill blush to find itself less white. 

And turn Lancastrian there. 

Bnt if thy ruby lip it spy. 
As kiss it thou may'st deign. 

With envy p.ale 'twill lose its dye, 
And Y'orkish turn again. 


From fi niannscript bejii-iiijr d.ate 15SS. Probably written nt 
the time of the threuteued invasion of the Spanish Armada. 

From merciless invaders. 

From wicked men's device, 
O God, arise and help us 

To qnell our enemies! 
Siulc deep their potent navies, 

Their strength and courage break ! 
O God, arise and save us, 

For Jesus Christ his sake! 

Though cruel Spain and Parma 

With heathen legions come, 
O God, and arm us! 

We'll die for our home. 
We will not change our credo 

For pope, nor book, nor bell ; 
And if the devil come himself. 

We'll hound him back to hell. 



We cannot give the origin of this spirited little poem. We 
tind it quoted in William Blacli's novel of *'l\Iadcap Violet," 
where it is mentioned as " the gor)d, old, wholesome ballad of 
'Willie's Visit to Melville Castle.' " 

O Willie's gane to Slelvillc Castle, 

Boots and spurs and a'. 
To bid the ladies a' farewell, 

Before he gacd awa'. 

The first he met was Lady Bet, 
Who led him through the ha'. 

And with a sad and sorry licart 
She let the tears doon fa'. 

Near the fire stood Lady Grace, 

Said ne'er a word ava;' 
She thought that she was sure of him 

Before he gacd aw.V. 

The next he saw was Lady Kate ; 
Guid troth, he aecdna craw, 

"Maybe the lad will fancy me. 
And disappoint ye a'." 

Then down the stair skipped Lady Jean, 

The Hower among them a'; 
Oh, las.scs, trust iu Providence, 

And yc'll get husbands a'. 

As on his steed he galloped off, 

They a' came to the door ; 
Ho g.ayly raised his feathered plume ; 

They set up sic a roar ! 

Their sighs, their cries, brought Willie back. 

He kissed them ane and a' : 
" Oh, lasses, bide till I come hame. 

And then I'll wed ye a' !" 

■ At all. 




Ill this humorons ballad, the wife hides a rebel relative in 
the house, and endeavors to guard her husbaud's loyalty at the 
esjiense of her own veracity, aud the "gnde-inun's" eense ot 

Our gntle-maii cam' liame at e'en, 

Ami liaiiie caiu' bo ; 
And there he saw a sadtlle-horse, 

Whatir iiae horse should be. 
" Oil, how cam' this horse here, 

How cau this Tie ? 
How cani' this horse here, 
Without tlie leave o' me?" 
"A horse!" quo' she. 
"Ay, a horse," quo' he. 
" Ye auld bliud doited carle, 

Bliuder mat ye he ! 
'Tis naetliing but a milk cow 
My mitinie seut to lue." 
"A milk cow!" quo' ho. 
"Ay, a milk cow," quo' she. 
" Far ha'e I ridden. 

And meikle ha'e I seen ; 
But a sadille ou a cow's back 
Saw I never naue !" 

Our gude-inan cam' h.Tme at e'eu, 

And hame cam' he ; 
He spied a pair o' jack-boots, 

Wbaur nae boots sliould be. 
" What's tliis now, gude-wife ? 

What's this I see f 
How cam' these boots here, 

Without the leave o' me ?" 
" Boots !" quo' slie. 
"Aj', boots," quo' lie. 
" Shame fa' your cuckold face, 

Aud ill mat ye see ! 
It's but a pair o' water-stoups 

The cooper sent to me." 
" Water-stoups !" quo' he. 
" Ay, water-stoups," quo' she. 
" Far ha'e I ridden. 

And fai-'er ha'e I gane ; 
But siller spurs on water-stoups 

Saw I never naue !" 

Our gude-mau cam' liame at e'en. 

And hame cam' he ; 
And there ho saw a sword, 

Whaur nae sword should be. 
"Wliat's this now, gude-wifu ? 

What's this I see? 

Oil, how cam' this sword here, 

Without the leave o' mo?" 

"A sword!" quo' she. 

"Ay, a sword," quo' lie. 

"Shame fa' your cuckold face, 

And ill mat ye see ! 
It's but a parritch spurtle' 
My miuuie sent to me." 
"A spurtle!" quo' he. 
"Ay, a spurtle," quo' she. 
"Weel, far ha'e I ridden, 

And meikle ha'e I seen ; 
But siller-haudled spurtles 
Saw I never naue !" 

Our gude-mau cam' hame at e'en, 

And hame cam' he ; 
There he spied a pouthered wig, 

Whaur nae wig should be. 
" What's this now, gude-wife ? 

What's this I see ? 
How cam' this wig here, 

Without the leave o' me?" 
"A wig I" quo' she. 
"Ay, a wig," quo' he. 
" Shame fa' your cuckold face. 

And ill mat ye see ! 
'Tis uaething but a clockiu' hen 

My miuuie sent to me." 
"A clockiu' lieu !" quo' he. 
"Ay, a clockiu' hen," quo' she. 
"Far ha'e I ridden, 

Aud meikle ha'e I seen ; 
But pouther on a clockiu' hen 

Saw I never naue !" 

Our gude-mau cam' hame at e'en, 

Aud hame cam' he ; 
And there ho saw a riding-coat, 

Whaur nae coat should be. 
" Oh, how cam' this coat here ? 

How can this be ? 
How cam' this coat here. 

Without the leave o' me ?" 
"A coat !" quo' she. 
"Ay, a coat," quo' he. 
"Ye auld blind dotard carle, 

Bliuder m.Tt ye be! 
It's but a pair o' blankets 

My miuuie seut to me." 

' A stick for stirring iiorridge. 



"Blankets!" quo' be. 
"Ay, blaukets,-' quo' slie. 
" Far La'e I ridden, 

And meikle ba'c I seen ; 
But buttons upon blankets 
Saw I never nane !" 

Beu went our gnde-man, 

And beu went be ; 
And there be spied a sturdy man, 

Whaur iiae man sbonld be. 
" How cam' this man bere ? 

How can tbis be? 
How cam' tbis man bere, 

Witbout the leave o' me ?" 
"A man !" quo' sbe. 
"Ay, a doited man," quo' be. 
"Puir blind body! 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's a new milking-maid 

My minnie sent to me." 
"A maid !" quo' be. 
"Aj', a maid," quo' sbe. 
"Far ha'e I ridden. 

And meiklo ba'e I seen ; 
But lang-bearded niilking-maids 

Saw I never nane 1" 


The foUowiiiir. from Roberts's Collection, is constructed from 
the versions of Kinloclt,, anj Chambers. It was a frag- 
ment of this which suggested to Sir Walter Scott his liue ballad 
of "Jock of Hazeldean." 

As I went fortli to take tbo air 

lutill an evening clear, 
I beard a pretty damsel 

JIaking a bcavy bier :' 
Making a beavy bier, I wot, 

But and a jiiteous mean ;" 
And aye sbo sigbed, and said, "Alas, 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen !" 

The sun was sinking in the west, 

The stars were shining ch^ar, 
\Vlien thro' the thickets o' the wood 

An auld knicbt did appear : 
Says, "Wlia has dune you wrang, fair mnid, 

And left yon bere alane ? 
Or wha has kissed your lovely lips, 

That vc ca' Hazelgreen ?" 

1 Lamentation. 

2 Jloan. 

"Haud your tongue, kind sir," she said, 

"Aud do not banter sae. 
Ob, why will ye add affliction 

Unto a lover's wae ? 
For nae man has dune me wrang," sbe said, 

"Nor left me here alane; 
And nane has kissed my lovely lips, 

That I ca' Hazelgreen." 

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladye ? 

Why weep ye by the t ide ? 
How blytbe and bapjiy micht be be 

Gets you to be bis bride ! 
Gets you to be bis bride, fair maid. 

And him I'll uo bemean ; 
But when I tak' my words again, — 

Whom ca' ye Hazelgreen ? 

" What like a man was Hazelgreen ? 

Will ye show bim to me ?" 
"He is a comely, proper youth 

I in my days did see ; 
His shoulders broad, bis annis lang. 

He's comely to be seen :" 
And aye sbe loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen. 

"If ye'll forsake this Hazelgreen, 

And go along wi' me, 
I'll wed ye to my eldest sou — 

Make you a lady free." 
" It's for to wed your eldest son 

I am a maid o'er mean ; 
I'd rather stay at haiiie," she says, 

"And dee for Hazelgreen." 

Then he's ta'en out a siller kaim, 

Kaimed down her yellow hair. 
And lookit in a diamond bricht. 

To see if she were fair. 
" My girl, y6 do all maids surpass 

That ever I ba'e seen ; 
Cheer up your heart, my lovely lass — 

Forget young Hazelgreen." 

" Young Hazelgiven be is my love. 

And evcruiair shall bo ; 
I'll nae forsake young Hazelgreen 

For a' the gowd ye'll gie." 
But aye slie sighed, aud said, "Alas!" 

And made a piteous mean ; 
And aye sbo loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen. 



But lio has ta'en licr up beliiiiJ, 

Set her npou liis horse ; 
Auil tliey rode on to Eiiibro'-town, 

Ami liclited at tbe Cross. 
Aud ho has coft her silken chics — 

She looked like any queen : 
"Ye surely now will sigh nae mair 

For Jock o' Hazclgreeu ?" 

" Young Hazclgreeu he is luj- love, 

Aud everraair shall bo ; 
I'll nae forsake young Hazclgreeu 

For a' the gowd ye gie." 
Aud aye she sighed, aud said, "Alas!" 

Aud made a piteous mean ; 
Aud aye she loot tbe tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazclgreeu. 

Then ho has coft for that ladye 

A fiuo silk ridiug-gowu ; 
Likewise he coft for that ladyo 

A steed, aud set her ou ; 
Wi' meuji feathers in her hat, 

Silk stockings, siller shoou ; 
Aud they ha'e ridden far athort, 

Seeking young Hazclgreeu. 

Aud when they came to Hazelyetts, 

Tbey lichted down therein : 
Monie were the braw ladyes there, 

Monie ane to be seen. 
Wben she lichted down amaug them a', 

She seemed to be their queen ; 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazclgreeu. 

Then forth ho came young Hazelgreeu, 

To welcome his father free : 
" You're welcome here, my father dear. 

An' a' yonr compauie." 
But when he looked o'er his shoulder, 

A licbt langh then ga'e he ; 
Says, "If I getua this ladye, 

It's for her I maun dee. 

"I must confess this is the maid 

I ance saw in a dream, 
A-walkiug thro' a pleasant shade. 

As she had been a queen. 
And for her sake I vowed a vow 

I ne'er would wed but she ; 

' Purchased. 

Should this fair ladye cruel ])rovc, 
I'll lay me down and dee." 

"Now baud your tongue, young Hazelgreeu ; 

Let a' j'our folly be : 
If ye be sick for that ladye. 

She's thrice as sick for thee. 
She's thrice as sick for thee, my soa. 

As bitter doth complean ; 
And a' she wants to heal her waes 

Is Jock o' Hazelgreeu." 

He's ta'en her in his armis twa, 

Led her thro' bower aud ha': 
" Cheer up yonr heart, my dearest May, 

Ye're ladye o'er them a'. 
The morn shall be onr bridal day. 

The nicht's our bridal e'en ; 
Ye sail nae mair ha'e cause to mean 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen." 



Love not nie for comely grace. 
For my pleasing eye or face. 
Nor for any outward part, 
No, nor for my constant heart ; 

For those may fail or turn to ill, 
So thou aud I shall sever : 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 
Aiul love me still, but know not why. 

So hast thou the saiuo reason still 
To dote upon me ever. 



From a half- sheet song, with the music, printed aboiU tbe 
year ITIO. Tliis has been called General Wolfe's sonjr, aud is 
said to have been suns by him the night before the battle of 

How stands the glass around ? 

For shame ! ye take no care, my boys, 

How stands the ghiss around ? 

Let mirth aud wine abound ; 

The trumpets sound ! 
The colors flying arc, my boys, 

To fight, kill, or wound. 

May we still be fonntl 
Content with our hard fare, my boys, 

Ou the cold ground. 



Why, soldiers, why 
Sboillil «"0 be melanthi)ly, boys ? 

Why, soldiers, why ? 

Whose business 'tis to die ? 

What! sighing? Fie! 
Shun fear, drinlc on, bo jolly, boys! 

'Tis he, yon, or I. 

Cold, hot, wet, or dry, 
We're always l)0iind to follow, boys, 

And scorn to fly. 

'Tis bnt iu vain 
(I mean not to npbraid yon, boys) — 

'Tis but iu vain 

For soldiers to complain. 

Should next campaign 
Send us to Him that made us, boys, 

We're free from pain ; 

Bnt should we remain, 
A bottle and kind landlady 

Cures all again. 


This song by Martj-n Parker (ICGO) is interesting .is Iiaviu;^ 
prompted much of the lyric force in Campbell's far uubler pio- 
(Inctiou, "Ye Mariners of England." 

Ye gentlemen of England 

That live at home at ease, 
Ah ! little do yon think upon 

The dangers of the seas. 
Give ear unto the mariners, 

And they will plainly show 
All the cares and the fears 

When the stormy winds do blow. 
When the stormy, etc. 

If enemies oppose ns 

W'heu England is at war 
Witli any foreign nation, 

We fear not wound or scar ; 
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em 

Our valor for to know, 
AVliilst they reel on the keel, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 
And the stormy, etc. 

Then eourago, all bravo mariners, 

And never be dismayed ; 
While we have bold adventurers, 

We ne'er shall want a trade : 

Our merchants will employ us 
To fetch them wealth, we know ; 

Tlieu bo bold — work for gold. 
When the stormy winds do blow. 
When the stormy, etc. 


The original sonjr, which is in two stanzas, and inferior to 
the following version, may be found in Sharpe'a Collection. 
It was composed previous to 16SS by <nie Douglas of Fiug- 
land, in honor of Miss Laurie, of Maxwelton. The bard was 
uusuccessfiil iu his suit, or else the lady jilted him, as she 
married a Mr. Ferguson. 

Maxwelton braes are bonuie, 

Where early fa's the dew ; 
And it's there that Annie Laurie 

Gi'ed me her promise true ; 
Gi'ed me her iiromiso true, 

Which ne'er forgot will be ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me douue and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw-drift. 

Her throat is like the swan, 
Her face it is the fairest 

That e'er the sun shone on ; 
That e'er the sun shone ou — 

And dark bine is her ee ; 
And for bonuie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay mo douno and dee. 

Like dew ou tlie gowan lying 

Is the fa' o' her I'aiiy feet ; 
Like the winds iu summer sighing, 

Her voice is low and sweet ; 
Her voice is low and sweet — 

And she's a' the world to me ; 
And for bonuie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me doune and dee. 

From " Dedteromelia ; ou, The Second Part of Musick's 



We be soldiers tln'pc, 

(Pardoniu'z vous on prie!) 
Lately come forth of the Low Country, 

Witli never a (lenny of monie. 



Here, good fellow, I drink to tliec ! 

(Pardouuez moi, je vous eu jirie !) 
To all good fellows, wlierever they be, 

With never a pennj' of monle ! 

And he that will not pledge me this 
(Pardouuez raoi, je vous en prie!) 

Pays for the shot, whatever it is. 
With never a penny of monie. 

Chai-ge it again, boy, charge it again, 
(Pardouuez nioi,je vous eu prie!) 

As long as there is any ink in thy pen, 
With never a peuny of monie. 

I^cnrg (Horcii. 

Carey (:ibout 1700-1743) was a natural sou of George 
Saville, Marquis of Halifiix, from wliom and from his 
lamily ho received a handsome annuity to the time of 
liis unhappy death by liis own hand. He was a musician 
by profession, and composed several songs, dramas, and 
burlesques. His "Sally in our Alley" was highly com- 
mended by Addison. Carey bad been watching an ap- 
prentice and his betrothed in Vauxliall enjoying their 
cakes and ale, when he came home aud wrote the song. 
Edmund Kean, the actor, a descendant of Carey. 
The composition of "God save the King" has been 
claimed for Carey; but it was probably anterior to his 


Of all the girls that are so smart. 

There's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of nij- heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 
There is no lady iu the land 

Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
She is the darliug of my heart, 

And she lives iu our alley. 

Her father he makes eabbage-nets, 

And through the streets does cry 'em ; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy 'em : 
But sure such folks eoukl ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
She is the darliug of my heart, 

And she lives iu our alley. 

When she is by, I le.ave my work, 
I love her so sincerely ; 

My master comes like auy Turk, 
Aud bangs me most severely : 

But let him bang his bellyful, 
I'll bear it all for Sally ; 

She is the darliug of my heart, 
Aud she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that's iu the wqpK; 

I dearly love but one day — 
And that's the day that comes betwixt 

A Satnrd.ay aud Monday ; 
For then I'm drest all iu my best 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darliug of my heart, 

Aud she lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church, 

Aud often am I blamt^d 
Because I leave him iu the lurch 

As soon as text is nannSd ; 
I leave the church iu sermon-time, 

And slink away to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

Wheu Christmas comes about again, 

Oh then I shall have money ; 
I'll hoard it up, and box it all, 

I'll give it to my houey : 
I would it were ten thousand pound, 

Fd give it all to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

My m.aster and the neighbors all 

Make game of me and Sally ; 
And, but for her, I'd better be 

A slave and row a galley ; 
But wheu my seven long years are out. 

Oh then I'll marry Sally,— 
Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, 

But not iu our alley. 

Sanies iJljomaou. 

The sou of a Scotch minister, Thomson (1700- 174S) 
was born at Ednam, in Roxburghsliire, Scotland. He 
completed bis education at the University of Edinburgli, 
where in 1719 he was admitted as a student of divinitj'. 
The professor gave him tlie lOitli Psalm to paraphrase, 
and he did it in so poetical a way that he was adiiion- 
ished to curb his imagination if he wished to be useful 



iu tlie ministry. Tliereupon lie resolved to trj' his fort- 
une as an autlioi'. His I'athci' liaving died, James went 
to London, where he had his pocket picked of a hand- 
kerchief containing his letters of introduction. Finding 
himself without money or friends, he fell back on his 
manuscript of "Winter," which he sold to Mr. Millar 
for three jtnineas, and it was published in 1736. It soon 
raised up friends for him, among them Pope, who revised 
and corrected several passages in his verse. "Winter" 
was s.neceeded by "Summer" in 1737; "Spring" in 1728; 
and "Autumn" in 1730. Thomson wrote "Sophonisba," 
a tragedy; also "Agamemnon," and "Edward and Eleo- 
nora," but no one of his dramatic ventures was a suc- 
ces.s. His "Coriolanus" was not produced till after his 
death. In 1733 he published his poem of " Liberty," a 
production now little read. 

After suffering somewhat from narrow means, he got 
a pension of £100 from the Prince of Wales, and was 
appointed Surveyor-general of the Leeward Islands, the 
duties of which he could perform by proxy, and which 
brought him £300 a year. Being now in easy cirenm 
stances', he retired to a cottage near Richmond Hill, on 
the Thames, where he wrote his "Castle of Indolence," 
generally regarded as his masterpiece. It was published 
in 174S. One day in the August of that year, after a 
brisk walk, he took a boat at Hammersmith for Kew. 
On the water he got chilled, neglected the slight cold, 
became feverish, and in a few days departed this life in 
his forty-eighth year. 

As a man, Thomson was generous, affable, and amia- 
ble. His chief fault was indolence, of wliich he was fully 
aware. As a poet, he was remarkable for purity of Ian- 
gu:ige and thought; and the highest eulogy that could 
be pronounced upon a man's writings was Lord Lyttel-' 
ton's assertion that Thomson's contain 

"No line which, tlyinjj, he couUl wish to blot." 

It is not to be denied that his cumbrous style, his 
faded classicalities, and his redundant and somewhat 
turgid diction have injured him with modern readers ; 
but he was a genuine poet notwithstanding. No better 
proof of this could be given than the remarkable lines 
which he wrote at the age of fourteen. Tliis curious 
fragment was first published in 1S41, m a life of Tliom- 
son by Allan Cunningham, and is as follows : 

" Now I surveyed my native faculties. 
And traced iny actions to tlieir teeming source; 
N<>\v I explored the universal frame, 
Gazed nature through, and, with interior lif;ht, 
Conversed with angels and unbodied .saints, 
That tread the courts of the Eternal King ! 
Gladly 1 would declare in lofty strains 
The power of Godhead to the sons of men, 
But thought is lost in its immensity; 

/ luiagiiiatiou wastes its strength in vain, 
And fancy tires and tiirus within itself. 
Struck with the amazing depths of Deity! 
Ah '. my Lord God I iu vain a tender youth, 
Unskilled ni arts of deep i>h!loso|)hy. 
Attempts to search the balky mass of matter, 
To trace the rules of motion, and pursue 
Ttie i)h:uitom Time, too subtle for his grasp : 
Yet may I fi-nm Thy most app;n*ent works 
Form some idea of their woiulrous Author." 

There are passages in his "Se.isons" and his "Castle 
of Indolence" which are not likely to become obsolete 
while high art and genuine devotional feeling find a 
response in the soul. His " Hymn on the Seasons," 
though at times suggesting a reminiscence of Milton, 
has been equalled by nothing iu the same class that any 
succeeding poet has produced; and, in saying this, we 
do not forget Coleridge's " Chaniouni," nor the many 
noble passages in Wordsworth's " Excursion." To 
Thomson we owe in no small measure the revival of 
that enthusiasm for the associations and beauties of ex- 
ternal nature which had been absent from English poetry 
during the predominance of the artificial school. 

One of tlie finest similes in that part of " The Sea- 
sons" entitled "Autumn'" was supplied by Pope, to 
whom Thoinson had given an interleaved copy of the 
edition of 17.36. Describing Lavinia, Thomson wrote: 

"Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self, 
Recluse among the woods; if city dames 
Will deign their faith; and thus she went, coraitelled 
By strong necessity, with as Berene 
And pleased a look as Patieuce e'er put on. 
To glean Palemou's fields." 

Pope drew his pen through tliis description, and sub- 
stituted the following lines — and so they stand in all 
the subscipiont editions : 

" Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self. 
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods. 
As in the hollow breast of Apeniiiue, 
Beneath the shelter of eucircliug hills, 
A myrtle rises, far from human eyes. 
And breathes Its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; 
So flourished blooming, and uuseeu by all, 
The sweet Lavinia, till nt Jeugth compelled 
By strong necessity's supreme comm:iud. 
With smiling juitieiicc in her looks, she went 
To gleau r;dcmon's fields." 

"The love of nature," says Coleridge, "seems to have 
led Thomson to a cheerful religion; and a gloomy re- 
ligion to have led Cowper to a love of nature. The one 
would carry his fellow-men along with him into nature; 
the other flies to nature from his fellow-men. In chas- 
tity of diction, however, and the harmony of blank verse, 
Cowper leaves Thomson immeasurably below hiiu; yet 
I still fed the latter to have been the boru poet." 


From "The Seasons." 

From tho moist meadow to the ■withered hill, 
Led by tho breeze, the vivid vcrdiuo runs, 
And swell.'! and deepens to the cherished eye. 
The hawthorn whileus; and the juicy groves 
Put forth their buds, uiifoldiug by degrees, 
Till the whole leafy forest stands displayed. 
In full Inxiiriance, to the sighing gales; 
Where tho deer rustle through the twining brake, 
And the birds sing concealed. At once arrayeil 
III all the colors of the fliishiug year, 



By Nature's swift ami secret-working liar.d, 

The garden glows, and fills the liberal air 

With lavish fragrance; wliile the promised fruit 

Lies yet a little embryo, uuperceived 

Within its crimson folds. Now from the town, 

Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, 

Oft let mo wander o'er the dewy fields, 

Wliere freslmess breathes, and dash the trembling 

From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze 
Of sweetbrier hedges I pursue my walk ; 
Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend 
Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, 
Aud see the country, far diiTnsed around, 
One boundless blusli, cue white-empnrpled shower 
Of mingled blossoms ; where the raptured eye 
Hurries from joy to joy, and, liid beneath 
The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies. 


Fbom " TuE Seasons.*' 

But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
Rejoicing in tlie east. The lessening cloud, 
Tlie kindling azure, aud the mountain's brow 
Illumed Avith lluid gold, his near approach 
Betoken glad. Lo ! now, apparent all. 
Aslant the dew-bright Earth, and colored air, 
Ilo looks in boundless majesty abroad; 
Aiid sheds the shining d.ay, that burnished plays 
On rocks, aud hills, and towers, and wandering 

High gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, Light ! 
Of all material beings first and best ! 
Efflux divine! Nature's resplendent robe! 
Without A\-hose vesting beauty all were wrapt 
In unessential gloom ; and thou, O Sun ! 
Soul of surrounding worlds ! in whom beat seen 
Shines out thy Maker! May I sing of thee? 


These, as they change. Almighty Father, these, 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth iu the pleasing spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
Wide llusb the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
And every sense and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in the summer months. 
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 

Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thnuder speaks ; 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. 
By brooks aud groves. In hollow-whispering gales. 
Thy bounty shines iu autumn uncontined. 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In winter, awful thou ! with clouds aud storms 
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempesti rolled. 
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwiud's "wiug. 
Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore, 
Aud humblest nature with thy northern blast. 
Mysterious round! What skill, what force di- 
Deep felt, iu these appear! .a simple train. 
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
Shade, unperceived, so softeniug into shade ; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole. 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wanderiug oft, with brute unconscious gaze, marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand. 
That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres. 
Works in the secret deep, shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring, 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day. 
Feeds every creature, hurls the tempest forth ; 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 
In adoration join, and, ardent, raise 
One general song ! To him, ye vocal gales, 
Breathe soft, whose spirit iu your freshness breathes. 
Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms. 
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
And ye, whose bolder note is he.ard afar, 
W^ho shako the astonished world, lift high to 

The impetuous song, and say from whom you 

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; 
And let mo catch it as I muse along. 
Y'o headlong torrents, rapid and profound! 
Y'e softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
Sound his stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 
Or bids yon roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
Soft roll your incense, herbs, aud fruits, and flowers. 
In miugled clouds to him ; whose sun exalts. 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil 



Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him ; 
Breathe your still sons into the reaper's heart, 
As home be goes beneath the joyous moon. 
Ye that keep watch iu heaven, as earth asleep 
Unconseions lies, effuse yonr mildest beams. 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
Great source of day! best image here below 
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
From world to world, the vital ocean roniul, 
On nature write with every beam his praise. 
The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate world ; 
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks. 
Retain the souud : the broad responsive low, 
Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 
And hi.s uusutfering kingdom yet will come. 
Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
Burst from the groves! and when the restless 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night his 

Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 
Crowu the great hynm ! iu swarming cities vast. 
Assembled men, to the deep organ join 
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 
At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; 
And, as each mingling flame increases each, 
In one united ardor rise to Heaven. 
Or, if you rather choose the rural shade, 
And find a fane iu every secret grove; 
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. 
Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. 
For me, when I forget the d.irling tlieme, 
\Ylicther the blossom blows, the summer-ray 
Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams; 
Or winter rises iu the blackening east ; 
Be my tongne mute, my fancy paint no more. 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! 

Should fate command me to the fartliest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 
Rivers unknowu to song; where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles; 'tis naught to me, 
Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
In the void waste, as in the city full ; 
And where ho vital spreads, there must be joy. 
When even at last the solenni hour shall come, 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 

I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, 
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around. 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
From seeming evil still educing good, 
And better thence again, and better still, 
Iu infinite progression. But I lose 
Myself iu him, iu light inettable ; 
Come, then, expressive Silence, muse his praise. 


From *'Tiie Castle of Indolenxb." 

It was not by vile loitering in ease 
That Greece obtained the brighter palm of art, 
That soft yet ardent Athens learnt to please, 
To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart, 
In all supreme, complete in every part! 
It was not thence majestic Rome arose, 
Aud o'er the nations shook her conquering dart: 
For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows ; 
Renown is not the child of indolent repose. 

Had unambitious mortals minded naught, 
But in loose joy their time to wear away; 
Had they alone the lap of Dalliance sought. 
Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to lay, 
Rude nature's state had been our state to-day ; 
No cities e'er their towery fronts had raised, 
No arts had made us opulent aud gay; 
With brother-brutes the human race had grazed; 
None e'er soared to fame, none honored been, 
none praised. 

Great Homer's song had never fired the breast 
To thirst of glory, aud heroic deeds ; 
Sweet Maro's' Muse, sunk in inglorious rest. 
Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds; 
The wits of modern time had told their beads, 
The monkish legends been their only strains; 
Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt iu weeds, 
Our Shakspeare strolled aud laughed with AVar- 

wiek swains, 
Ne had my master Spenser charmed his Mulla's 


Dumb too had been the sago historic Muse, 
And perished all the sons of ancient fame ; 
Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse 

Viriiil, born on tlie bauks of the Mincins, iu the north of 





Through the dark deiitli of time their vivid 

Had all been lost with such as have no uame. 
Who then had scorned his ease for others' 

good f 
Who theu had toiled rapacious men to tame ? 
Who ill the public breach devoted stood, 
Aud for his country's cause been prodigal of 

blood ? 

But should your hearts to fame unfeeling be. 
If right I read, you pleasure all require : 
Theu hear how best may be obtained this fee. 
How best enjoyed this nature's wide desire. 
Toil, and be glad! let Industry inspire 
Into your quickened limbs her buoj'ant breath ! 
Who does uot act is dead ; absorpt entire 
lu miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath : 
Oh leaden-hearted men, to be in love with death ! 

Ah ! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, 
When drooping health and spirits go amiss ? 
How tasteless then whatever cau bo given ! 
Health is the vital principle of bliss, 
And exercise of health. In proof of this, 
Behold the wretch who slugs his life away, 
Soon swallowed in disease's sad abyss ; 
While he whom toil has braced, or mauly play. 
Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear 
as day. 

Oh, who can speak the vigorous joys of health ! 
Unclogged the body, unobscured the mind : 
The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, 
The temperate evening falls serene and kind, 
lu health the wiser brutes true gladness lind. 
See how the younglings frisk along the meads, 
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind ; 
Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds : 
Yet what hut high-strung health this dancing 
pleasaunce breeds ? 


An Ode, from "Alfbed, a Masque.'* 

Wlieu Britain first, at Heaven's command, 

Arose from out the aznre main, 
This was the charter of the land, 

And guardian angels sung this strain : 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Brilons never will be slaves." 

The nations not so blessed as thee' 

Must in their turn to tyrants fall ; 
While thou shalt flourish great and free, 
The dread aud envy of them all. 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

Still more majestic sh.alt thou rise. 

More dreadful from each foreign 'stroke ; 
As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : 
All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
But work their woe aud thy renown. 
'•Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine : 
All thiue shall be the subject main : 
Aiul every shore it circles thine. 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

The Muses, still with freedom found. 

Shall to thy happy coast repair : 
Blessed isle ! with matchless beauty crowned, 
And mauly hearts to guard the fair. 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 


From " The Castle of Indolence." 

I care not. Fortune, what you me deny ; 
You cannot rob nie of free Nature's grace. 
You cannot shut the windows of tho sky. 
Through which Aurora sliows her brightening 

face ; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres bracf. 
Aud I their toys to the great cliildreu leave : 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 

' " Blessed as thou " would be the conect form ; but rhyme 
is imperious. 



lol)n Pjier. 

Dyer (1700-1758) was a young Welshman, son of a 
prosperous attorney. He tried to be a painter, and went 
to Rome to study, but gave it up on tiuding lie could 
not rise to his ideal. Grongar Hill was near his birth- 
place, and he sang of it at six-and-twenty. The poem, 
if first published in the nineteenth century, would have 
excited less attention ; but it was a new departure in its 
day from the swelling diction then so prevalent, that 
even Thomson did not escape from it in describing nat- 
ural scenes. Dyer struck a less artificial note, but could 
not wholly cast off nymphs and Muses, gods and god- 
desses, then considered a necessary part of the "prop- 
erties" of the poetical adventurer. He wrote "The 
Fleece," a poem ; also one on " The Ruins of Rome" — 
both in blank verse. Wordsworth addresses a sonnet to 
him, and predicts that "a grateful few" will love Dyer's 
modest lay, 

"Long as the thrash shall pipe on Grongar Dill 1" 


Silent nympli, with curious eye, 

Who, tbe purple evening, lie 

On tbe mountain's lonely van, 

Beyond tlio noise of busy man ; 

Painting fair tbe form of things, 

While the yellow linnet sings, 

Or the tuneful nightingale 

Charms the forest with her tale, — 

Come with all thy various hues. 

Come, and aid thy sister Muse ; 

Now, while Phoebus ricViug high 

Gives lustre to the laud and sky! 

Grongar Hill invites my song. 

Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 

Grongar, lu whose mossy cells 

Sweetly-mnsing Quiet dwells ; 

Grongar, iu whose silent sliade. 

For the modest Muses made, 

So oft I have, the evening still. 

At the fountain of a rill. 

Sate upon a flowery bed, 

With my hand beneath my head. 

While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 

Over mead, and over wood. 

From house to house, from hill to hill. 

Till Contemplation had her fill. 

Aluiut his checkered sides I wiud, 
And leave his brooks and meads behind, 
And groves and grottoes where I lay. 
And vistas shooting beams of day : 
Wide and wider spreads the vale. 
As circles on a smooth canal : 

The mountains round, nuhappy fate ! 
Sooner or later of all height. 
Withdraw their summits from the skies. 
And lessen as the others rise : 
Still the prospect wider spreads, 
Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 
Still it widens, widens still. 
And sinks the newly risen hill. 

Now, I gain the mountain's brow, 
What a landscape lies below ! 
No clouds, no vapors intervene. 
But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of nature show. 
In all the hues of heaven's bow, 
And, swelling to embrace the light, 
Siireads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the clifl's arise, 
Proudly towering in the skies ; 
Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from henco ascending fires ; 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
Ou the yellow mountain-heads. 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 
And glitters ou the broken rocks. 

Below me trees unnumbered rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes : 
The gloomy pine, the poplar bine, 
The yellow beech, the sable yew. 
The slender fir that taper grows. 
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs. 
And beyond the imrple grove. 
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! 
Gaudy as the opening dawn. 
Lies a long and level lawn, 
Ou which a dark hill, steep and high, 
Holds and charms the wandering eye. 
Deep are his feet iu Towy's flood. 
His sides are clothed with waving wood. 
And ancient towers crown his brow. 
That cast an awful look below ; 
Whoso ragged walls the ivy creeps. 
And with her arms from falling keeps; 
So both a safety from the wind 
On mutual dependence find. 
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 
'Tis now the apartment of the toad ; 
And there the fox securely feeds; 
Aiul there the poisonous adder breeds. 
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
While ever and anon there falls 
Hugo heaps of hoary mouldered walls. 
Yet Time has seen, — that lifts the low. 
And level lays the lofty brow, — 



Has seen this broken pile complete, 
Big with tbo vauity of state : 
But transient is the smile of Fate ! 
A little rule, a little sway, 
A sunbeam iu a -n'iufer's day, 
Is all the proud and miglity have 
Between tlie cvadle and tlie grave. 

And see the rivers how they run, 
Tbrongh woods and meads, iu shade and sun, 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep. 
Like human life to endless sleep. 
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought. 
To instruct our wandering thought ; 
Thus she dresses green and gay. 
To disperse our eares away. 

Ever charming, ever new. 
When will the landscape tire the view ! 
The fountain's fall, the river's tlow. 
The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
The windy summit, wild and high, 
Eonghly rushing on the skj- ! 
Tlie pleasant seat, the ruined tower, 
Tlic naked rock, the shady bower ; 
Tlie town and village, dome and fai'm, 
Each give each a double charm, 
As pearls upon an Etliiop's arm. 

See oil the monutaiii's southern side, 
Wliere the iirospcct opens wide, 
Where the evening gilds the tide. 
How close and small the Ledges lie ! 
What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! 
A step, niethinks, may pass the stream. 
So little distant daugers seem ; 
So we mistake the Future's face. 
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ; 
As you summits soft and fair. 
Clad in colors of the air, 
Wliiuli to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 
Still we tread the same coarse way. 
The present's still a cloudy day. 

Oh may I with myself agree, 
And never covet what I see ; 
Content me with a humble shade. 
My jiassious tamed, my wishes laid ; 
For while our Avishes wildly roll. 
We banish quiet from the soul : 
'Tis thus the busy beat the air. 
And misers gatlier wealth and care. 

Now, eveu now, my joys run high, 
As on the mountain turf I lie ; 

While the wanton zephyr sings. 
And iu the vale perfumes his wings ; 
While the waters uiurninr deep. 
While the shepherd charms his sheep. 
While the birds unbonuded fly, 
And with music fill the sky. 
Now, eveu now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ; 
Search for Peace with all your skill : 
Open wide the lofty door. 
Seek her ou the marble floor. 
In vain you search, she is not there; 
Iu vain you search the domes of Care ! 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads, 
Ou the meads, and mouutaiu-beads. 
Along with Pleasure, close allied. 
Ever by each other's side ; 
And often, by the nnirmuring rill, 
Hears the thrush, while all is still, 
Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 

|)l)ilip Dobiiriiigc. 

Dodilridgc (1703-1751) was a native of London. He 
lost botli liis parents at an early age, anj pursued his 
studies for the ministry at an academy for Dissenters ;it 
Kibwoith. He began his ministry at the agi'. of twenty, 
and became an eminent preacher. As an author of prac- 
tical religions works his reputation is very high. His 
"Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul" is among 
tlie most esteemed of his productions. His hymns, 
which entitle him to a place among English religious 
poets, were unexcelled in tliuir day, and show genuine 
devotional feeling, a good car for versification, and fine 
literary taste. A pulmonary complaint caused Dod- 
dridge to try the climate of Lisbon. He arrived there on 
the 31st of October, 17.51, but survived only five days. 
As a man he was much beloved, and his character shines 
forth iu his writings. 


Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, 

With all your feeble light; 
Farewell, thou ever-chaugiiig moon, 

Pale empress of the night ; 

And thou, refulgent orb of day. 

In brighter flames arrayed! 
My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, 

No more demands thine aid. 

Y'e stars are but the shining dust 
Of my divine abode, — 



The pavemeut of those heavenly courts 
Where I shall reigu ■with God ! 

The Father of eternal light 
Shall there his beams display, 

Nor shall one moment's darkness mix 
With that unvaried day. 

No more the drops of piercing grief 
Shall swell into mine eyes ; 

Nor the meridian sun decline 
Amid those brighter skies. 

There all the millions of his saints 

Shall iu one song unite, 
And each the bliss of all shall view 

With infinite delight. 


Awake, ye saints, and raise your eyes, 
And raise your voices high ; 

Awake and praise that sovereign love 
That shows salvation nigh. 

On all the wings of time it flies, 
Each moment brings it near; 

Then welcome each declining day, 
Welcome each closing year! 

Not many years their round shall run, 

Nor many mornings rise. 
Ere all its glories stand revealed 

To our admiring eyes! 

Ye wheels of nature, speed your course! 

Ye mortal powers, decay ! 
Fast as ye bring the night of death, 

Vc bring eternal day ! 


Dr. jDhiisnii jnslly pronounces the Pillowing "one of tlie 
finest epigrams iu ilie English langnjige." It is fonndetl on 
Doddridge's owu family motto of "Dam vivimns vivamns" 
(Wliile we live, let us live). 

" Live while you live," the epicure would say, 
" And seize the pleasures of the present day." 
"Live while you live," the sacred preacher cries, 
"And give to God each moment as it flies." 
Lord, in my view let both united be : 
I live in pleasure when I live to Thee ! 


Hark, the glad .soiuul ! the Saviour comes, 

Tiie Saviour promised long ; 
Let every heart prepare a throne. 

And every voice a song! 

» vt if # # # 

He comes, the prisoners to release, 

In Satan's bondage held ; 
The gates of brass before him burst, 

The iron fetters yield. 

He comes, from thickest films of vice 

To clear the mental r.ny, 
And on the eyeballs of the blind 

To pour celestial day. 

He comes the broken heart to biiul. 

The bleeding soul to cure. 
And with the treasures of his grace 

To enrich the humble poor. 

Our glad Hosannas, Prince of Peace, 

Thy welcome shall proclaim. 
And heaven's eternal arches ring 

With thy belovdd name. 

3ol)u lUcslcj). 

Son of the rector of Epworth, iu Lincolnshire, John 
Wesley (1703-1791) was educated at Oxford, where he 
and his brotlier Charles, and a few other students, lived 
after a regular system of pious study and discipline, 
whence they were denominated Methodists. James 
Harvey, author of the " Meditations," and George White- 
tield, the great preacher, who died at Newburyport, 
Mass., were members of this association. John and 
Cliarlcs Wesley sailed for Georgia with Oglethorpe, Oc- 
tober 14th, 173.5, and anchored in the Savannah River, 
February 6th, 1736. Charles soon returned to England ; 
John stayed in Georgia a year and nine months. In 1740 
lie began in England that remarkable career as preacher, 
writer, and laborer, which led to the formation of the 
large and powerful Methodist denomination. In 17.50 
he married, but the union was an unhappy one, and sep- 
aration ensued. He continued his ministerial work up 
to his ciglity-eighth year; his apostolic earnestness and 
venerable appearance procuring for him everywhere pro- 
found respect. His religious poems are many of tbem 
paraphrases from the German, but have much of the 
merit of original productions. From phenomena in his 
own family, Wesley became a devout believer in preter- 
natural occurrences and spiritual intercommunication. 
"With my latest breath," he says, "will I bear my tes- 
timony against giving up to infidels one great proof of 
the invisible world." 




From the German of Pall Geruardt. 

Cominit tlioii all tliy griefs 
Ami ways into Iiis hamls, 
To his sure truth and teiuler care, 

AVlio earth aiul hcaveu CDiiimaiuls ; 

Who points the clouds tlirir course, 
Whom winds and seas obey, 
He shall direct thy wandering feet. 
He shall prepare thy way. 

Give to the winds tliy fears; 
Hoiie, and bo nndisniayed ; 
God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears, 
God shall lift np tliy head. 

Tiirough waves and clouds and storms. 
He gently clears thy way ; 
Wait thou his time; so shall this uight 
Soon end in joyous day. 

Sfill heavy is thy heart ? 
Still sink thy spirits down ? 
Cast off the weight, let fear depart, 
And every care he gone. 

Wliat though thou rulest not ? 
Yet heaveu and eartli and hell 
Proclaim, God sittetU on the Throne, 
Aud ruleth all things well ! 

Leave to his sovereign sway 
To choose and to command ; 
So shalt thou wouderiug own, his way 
How wise, how strong his hand ! 

Far, far above thy thought 
His counsel shall appear, 
When fully he the work hath wrought 
That caused thy needless fear. 

Thou seest our weakness. Lord ! 
Our hearts are known to thee : 
Oh! lift thou up tho sinking hand, 
Confirm the feeble knee ! 

Let us, in life, in death, 
Tby steadfast Truth declare. 
And publish, with our latest breath, 
Thy love and guardian care ! 

lllilUam C)amiltoii. 

A n:\tive of Ayrshire, in Scotland, Hrtmilton of Ban- 
gour (1704-1T54) was a man of fortune and family. An 
unauthorized edition of his poems appeared in Glasgow 
in 1748; a genuine edition was published by his friends 
in 1760; and a still more complete one, edited by James 
Puterson, appeared in 1850. Hamilton was the delight 
of the fashionable circles of Scotland. In 1745 he joined 
the standard of Prince Charles, and, on the downfall of 
the Jacobite party, Bed to France. He was tinally par- 
doned, and bis paternal estate restored to bim; but he 
did not long live to enjoy it. A pulmonary attack com- 
pelled bim to seek a warmer climate, and be died at 
Lyons in the fiftieth year of his age. "The Braes of 
Yarrow " is the best known of Hamilton's poems ; in- 
deed, tlie rest of them are quite worthless. Johnson 
said of bis poems, with some justice, that "they were 
very well for a gentleman to hand about among bis 
frieuds ;" but Johnson must liave overlooked " The 
Braes of Yarrow," or else be was not in a mood to 
feel its marvellous pathos and beauty. It seems to 
have suggested three charming poems to Wordsworth 
— "Yarrow Unvisited," " Yarrow Visited," and " Yar- 
row Revisited." 


A. Bnsk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride ; 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ; 
Busk ye, bnsk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, 
Aud think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow. 

B. Where gat ye that bonny, bonny bride? 

Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? 

A. I gat her where I dareua well be seen, 

Pu'ing the birks' ou the braes of Yarrow. 

Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride ; 

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! 
Nor let thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

B. Why does she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride? 

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 
And why dare ye nae mair well be seen 
Pn'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ? 

A. Lang maun she weep, laug maun she, maun she 
weep ; 
Lang maun she weep with dnle and sorrow ; 
Aud lang maun I nae mair well be seen 
Pu'ing the birks ou the braes of Yarrow. 

' rulliug the l)irches. 



For she has tint lier lover, lover dear, 
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; 

Aud I ha'e slaiu the comeliest swain 

That e'er pu'ed birks ou the braes of Yarrow. 

Wliy runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reiil ? 

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sor- 
row ? 
And why you luehmcholious weeds, 

Hung ou the bonny birks of Yarrow ? 

What's yonder floats ou the rueful, rueful 
flude ? 

Wliat's yonder floats ? Oh, dulo and sorrow ! 
'Tis he, the comely swaiu I slew 

Uiion the dulofnl braes of Yarrow I 

Wash, oh wasli his wounds, bis wounds in tears. 
His wounds in teais with dule and sorrow ; 

And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 
And lay him on the braes of Yarrow ! 

Then build, then bnild, ye sisters, sisters sad. 
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow ; 

And weep around in waeful wise 

His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. 

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield. 
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow. 

The fatal spear that pierced his breast, 

His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow. 

Did I not warn tliee not to, not to love. 
And warn from tight ? but to my sorrow, 

O'er-rashly bauld, a stronger arm 

Thou met'st, and fell ou the braes of Yarrow. 

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows 
the grass, 

Yellow ou Yarrow's bank the gowan. 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock. 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow llowiii'. 

Flows Yarrow sweet f As sweet, as .sweet flows 

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow. 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk. 

The apple frae the rock as mellow. 

Fair was thy love, fair, fair indied thy love ! 

In flowery bunds thou him didst fetter: 
Tho' he was fair, and well beloved again, 

Than me he never lo'ed thee bettei'. 

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride ; 

Busk j'e, busk ye, my winsome marrow ; 
Bnsk ye, aud lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, 

Aud think nae mair on the braes of Yaiiow. 

C How can I busk a bonuy, bonny bride ? 
How can I l)nsk a winsome marrow ? 
How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed 

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? 

O Yarrow fields! may never, never rain 
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover ! 

For there \wis basely slain my love, 
My love, as he had not been a lover! 

The boy put ou his robes, his robes of green ; 

His puri>le vest, 'twas my ain sewiii'. 
Ah, wretched me ! I little, little ken'd 

He was in these to meet his ruin ! 

The boy took out his milk- white, milk- white 

Uiiheedfnl of my dule aud sorrow ; 
But ere the to-full of the night, 

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. 

Mncli I rejoiced that waefiil, waeful day; 

I sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
But lang ere night the spear was flown 

That slew my love, aud left me inoiirniiig. ' 

What can my barbarous, barbarous father do 
But with his cruel rage imrsne met 

JI}' lover's blood is on thy spear; 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo mo ? 

5Iy hapjiy sisters may be, may be prond, 
With cruel and ungentle scoffiu', 

May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes 
My lover nailed in his cofBu. 

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid. 
And strive with threatening words to move me. 

My lover's blood is on thy spear ; 

How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, tho bed of love ; 

With bridal sheets my body cover ; 
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door. 

Let in the expected husband lover! 

But who the expected husband, liusband is ? 
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter : 



All me ! what ghastly spectre's yon, 

Comes, iu bis pale sbroiul, bleeding, after ? 

Pale as be is, bere lay biiii, lay liini ilowu ; 

Oh, lay bis cold head on uiy pillow ! 
Take aft", take aft" these bridal weeds, 

Aud crown my carel'nl bead with willow. 

Pale tho' thon art, yet best, yet best beloved, 
Oh conld my warmth to life restore thee ! 

Ye'd lie all night between my breasts : 
No youth lay ever there before thee. 

Pale, pale indeed, oh lovely, lovely yonth ! 

Forgive, forgive so fonl a slaughter, 
And lie all night between my breasts ; 

No youth shall ever lie there after. 

A. Return, return, oh mournful, mournful bride! 
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow : 
Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs ; 

Ho lies a corpse on tho braes of Yarrow! 

Natljanicl (Cotton. 

Cotton (1707-1788) published "Visions in Verse" 
(17.51), for children, and "Works in Prose and Verse" 
(1791). He followed the medical profession, and was 
distinguished for liis skill in tlic treatment of cases of 
insanity. Cowper, Hie poet, was his patient, and bears 
testimony to his "well-known huiuauity and sweetness 
of temper." 



To-morrow, thou say ? 
Jlethought I heard Horatio say. To-morrow. 
Go to — I will not hear of it. To-morrow! 
'Tis a sharper who stakes his penury 
Against thy plenty; vpho takes thy ready cash, 
Aud pays thee naught but wishes, hopes, and prom- 
The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt. 
That gulls the easy creditor ! To-morrow ! 
It is a period nowhere to be found 
In all the hoary registers of Time, 
Unless, perclianee, in the fool's calendar ! 
Wisdom disclaims the word, uor holds society 
With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its Father; 
Wrought of sueli stnft'as dreams arc, and as baseless 
As the fantastic visions of the evening. 

But soft, my friend; arrest the jiresent moments; 
For, bo assured, they are all arrant tell-tales ; 
Aud though their flight be silent, and their path 
Trackless as the winged couriers of the air, 
They post to lieaven, and there record thy folly ; 
Because, though stationed on tlie important watch, 
Thon, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, 
Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved. 
And know for that thou slumberest ou the guard. 
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar 
For every fugitive ; and when thou thus 
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal 
Of hoodwinked Justice, who shall tell thy audit? 

Tlien stay the present instant, dear Horatio ! 
Imprint the marks of wisdom ou its wings. 
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms — far more pre- 
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountains! 
Oh, let it not elude thy grasp, but, like 
The good old patriarch upon record, 
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee ! 

Cljarlcs lUcslcji. 

Charles Wesley, brother of John, was born at Epworth 
in 1708; died in London, 1788. Educated at Oxford, he 
became an able jireacher, and aided Ins brother iu the 
establishment of Methodism. He wrote hymns, full of 
devotional fervor. " The Wrestler" stamps him a poet. 
Two of Wesley's sons, Charles aud Samuel, became emi- 
nent as musicians. 


Genesis XXXII. 24-20. 

Come, oil thou traveller unknown. 
Whom still I hold, but cannot see, 

My company before is gone. 

Add I am left alone with thee ; 

With tliee all niglit I mean to stay, 

Aud wrestle till tlie break of day. 

I need not tell thee who I am, 

My misery or sin declare ; 
Tliyself hast called me by my name; 

Look on thy Iiands, and read it there] 
But who, I ask thee, who art thou ? 
Tell mo thy name, aud tell mo now. 

In vain thou strugglest to got free, 
I never will unloose my hold ; 



Art tbon the Man that died for me ? 

The secret of thy love uufold. 
Wrestliug, I will uot let thee go, 
Till I thy name, thy nature know. 

Wilt thou not yet to mo reveal 

Thy new, unutterable name ? 
Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell : 

To know it now, resolved I am : 
Wrestling, I will not let thee go. 
Till I thy name, tliy nature know. 

'Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue, 
Or touch tlio hollow of my thigh : 

Though every siuew he unstrung. 
Out of my arms thou shalt not fly: 

Wrestling, I will not let thee go. 

Till I thy name, tliy nature know. 

What thongli my shriukiug ilcsli complain, 
Aud murmur to contend so long ? 

I rise superior to my pain ; 

When I am weak, then I am strong : 

And when my all of strength shall fail, 

I shall with the God-Man prevail. 

My .strength is gone ; ray nature dies ; 

I sink beneath thy weighty hand; 
Faiut to revive, and fall to rise; 

I fall, aud yet by faith I staud : 
I staud, and will not let thee go, 
Till I tliy name, thy nature know. 

Yield to me now, for I am weak. 

But confident in self-despair; 
Speak to my heart, in hlessiugs speak. 

Be conquered by my inst.iut prayer ! 
Speak, or thou never hence shalt move, 
Aud tell mo if thy name be Love ? 

'Tis Love ! 'tis Love ! Thou dicdst for me ! 

I hear thy whisper iu my heart ! 
The morning breaks, the shadows flee ; 

Pure universal Love thou art! 
To me, to all, thy bowels move ; 
Thy nature and thy name is Love! 

My prayer hath power with God ; the grace 

Unspeakalile I now receive ; 
Through faith I see thee face to face, 

I see thee face to face, aud live: 
In vain I h.ave not wept and strove; 
Thy nature aud thy name is Love I 

I know thee. Saviour, who thou art ; 

Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend ! 
Nor wilt thou with the night depart, 

But stay, aud love me to the end ! 
Thy mercies never shall remove, 
Tliy nature and tliy name is Love. 

The 8un of Righteousiu'.ss on nie 

Hath rose, with healing iu his wings ; 

Withered my nature's strength, from thee 
My soul its life aud succor brings; 

My help is all laid up above; 

Thy nature aud thy name is Love. 

Contented now iipcui my thigh 

I halt, till life's short jouruey end; 

All heli)lessuess, all weakness, I 

Ou thee alone for strength depend ; 

Nor have I power from thee to move ; 

Thy nature aud thy name is Love. 

Lame as I am, I take the prey, 

Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome ; 
I leap for joy, pursue my way. 

And as a houuding hart fly home! 
Through all eternity to prove 
Thy nature and thy name is Love! 


Come, let us anew our jonrnc)' pursue — 

Roll round with the year, 
Aud never stand still till the Master apjiear : 
His adorable will let us gladly fulfil, 

And our talents improve 
By the patience of hope, and the labor of love. 

Our life is a dream ; our time, as a stream, 

(Slides swiftly away. 
And the fugitive moment refuses to stay : 
The arrow is flown, the moment is gone ; 

The milleuial year 
Rushes on to our view, and eternity's near. 

that each, in the day of his coming, may say, 

" I have fought my way through ; 

1 have finished the work thou didst give me to 

O that each from his Lord ni.ay receive the glad ! 

word , 

" Well and faithfully done ! 
Enter iuto my joy, and sit down ou my throne !" 




Christ, wboso glory fills I ho skies, 
Christ, the true, the only Light, 

Sun of Righteousness, arise, 

Triumph o'er the shades of uight! 

Day-spring from on high, be near ! 

Day-star, in my heart appear ! 

Dark anil cheerless is the nioru 

Unaccompanied by thee ; 
Joyless is the day's return 

Till thy mercy's beams I see ; 
Till they inward light impart, 
Glad my eyes and warm my heart. 

Visit then this soul of mine, 

Pierce the gloom of sin and grief! 

Fill me. Radiancy Divine, 
Scatter all my uubelief ! 

Jlore and more thyself display, 

Shining to the perfect day. 

©corgc, £orb £jittclton. 

Lyttiiton (170!V1773), a native of Haglcy, and the son 
of a baronet, was educated at Oxford, and at nineteen 
tnivelled on the Continent. He is one cl" the poets ad- 
mitted into Aiken's Collection ; but the most buoyant 
of liis produclions is the one little song which we sub- 


When Delia on the plain appears. 
Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, but dare not move : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love 1 

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear 
No other voice bnt hers can hear. 
No other wit bnt hers approve : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

If she some other youth commend, 
Thinigh I was once his fondest friend, 
His instant enemy I prove : 
Tell me. my heart, if this be love ? 

When she is absent, I no more 
Delight in all that pleased before. 
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove: 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

When, fond of power, of beanty vain. 
Her nets she spread for every swain, 
I strove to hate, but vaiuly strove : — 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

Samncl JJoIjugou. 

Tlie son of a poor Lichfield bookseller, Jolinson (1709- 
1784) fought his way nobly to literary eminence against 
poverty, disease, and adverse fortune. At nineteen he 
went to Oxford, where he stayed three years, and got a 
reputation for his Latin verses ; but his father becoming 
insolvent, he had to leave without taking a degree. In 
17:56 he married Mrs. Porter, a widow twenty years older 
than himself. To her he showed a true attachment as 
long as she lived. In 1738 he liegan his career in Lon- 
don with a poem upon "London," wliieli drew from 
Pope tlie remark: "The author, whoever he is, will not 
long be concealed." For ten years more Johnson bat- 
tled on, doing job work for Cave, publisher of the Gen- 
tkinaiis Jfagaziiie ; and at the age of forty published 
his "Vanity of Human Wishes," a poem in imitation 
of the Tentli Satire of Juvenal. The following year ap- 
peared "The Rambler." His " Kassehis " was written 
to pay the expenses of his mother's funeral. His "Dic- 
tionary" occupied eight years of his life. The last of 
ills literary labors was " The Lives of tlic Poets." Of 
this almost forgotten work it has been remarked : " Some 
of his dwarfs are giants; many of his giants have dwin- 
dled into dwarfs." He could not appreciate Milton or 
Gray; but he gave importance to versifiers whose very 
names are unfamiliar to the modern reader. 

In 1703 the king conferred on Johnson a pension of 
£.300 a year, partly, it may be inferred, in consequence of 
Ids political services; for he wrote a pamphlet entitled 
"Taxation no Tyranny," to show that Samuel Adams, 
George Washington, and the rest of the American mal- 
contents ought to pay their taxes on tea, etc., without 
grumbling. Henceforth he had a comparatively easy 
time of it, and the Johnson of this period is pretty well 
known. He is as near to us as it is in the power of 
writing to place any man. Everything about him — his 
coat, his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, his St. 
Vitus's dance, bis rolling walk, his blinking eye; the 
"flushed face, and the veins swollen on bis bi-uad fore- 
head," outward signs which too clearly marked his ap- 
probation of his dinner; his insatiable appetite for flsh- 
sauee and veal -pie with plums, his thirst for tea, his 
trick of touching the posts as he walked, and his mys- 
terious practice of treasuring up scraps of orange-peel; 
his morning slumbers, his midnight disputatious, his 
contortions, his mutterings, his gruntings, his puffings; 
his vigorous, acute, and ready eloquence ; liis sarcastic 
wit. Ids vehemence, his insolence, his fits of tempestuous 
rage, his queer inmates, shielded by his kindness — old 
Mr. Levett and blind Mrs. Williams, the cat Hodge, and 
the negro Frank — all are as familiar to us as the objects 
by which we have been surrounded from cliildhood. 

For all this knowledge we are indeljted to James Bos- 
well, Esquire," a Scottish advocate, of shallow brain but 



impcrtuibable conceit, the thickness of wliosc mental 
slciu enabled him to enjoy the great Englishman's soci- 
ety, in spite of sneers and insults hurled by day and 
iiiglit at his empty head. Not a perfect vacuum, hon- 
evcr, was that head; for one fixed idea possessed it — ad- 
miration of Samuel Jolinson, and the resolve to lose no 
words that fell from his idolized lips. To this fussy, 
foolish man, the butt and buffoon of tlic distinguished 
society into wliich lie had pushed himself, wc owe a 
boolv wliicli is .justly held to be the best biography in 
tlie English language." 

Johnson's mortal remains were buried in Westminster 
Abbey, near the foot of Shakspeare's monument, and 
close to the grave of Garriek. 


On foundation stands the warrior's pride, 

How just his holies, let Swedish Charles' decide: 

A friime of adamant, a soul of fire. 

No dangers fright Iiini, and no labors tire; 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 

Uncouqnercd lord of pleasure and of [lain ; 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the fichl ; 

Behold, surrounding king.s their powers combine. 

And one capitulate, and one resign ; 

Peace courts his hand, hut spreads her charms in 

vain ; 
"Think nothing gained," he cries, "till uanght re- 
main ; 
On Mo.seow's walls till Gothic standards Hy, 
And all be mine beneath the polar .sky." 
The march hegins in military state. 
And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 
And Winter barricades the realms of frost; 
He comes, nor want nor cold liis course delay : — 
Hide, bliisliing Glory, hide I'nltowa's day! 
Tho vanriuislied hero leaves his broken bands. 
And shows his miseries in distant lands; 
Condennied a needy supplicant to wait: 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate, 
lint did not cliance at length her error mend ? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end? 
Did rival nionarehs give the fatal wound ? 
Or hostile millions press Lim to the ground? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand : 
He left tho name, at wliieh the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

' Charles XII. of Sweden, dofenled at llic bnltle orPullnwn, 
in July, 17119, was s-liot .it Frederickshall, i)U tlie coast of Nor- 
way, in Deceml)er, 1718. 


Condemned to Hope's delusive mine, 

As on we toil from day to day, 
By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 

Our social comforts drop away. 

Well tried through many a A-arying year. 
See Levett to the grave descend. 

Officious, innocent, sincere. 

Of every friendless name the friend. 

Yet still ho fills Affection's eye. 
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind ; 

Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny 
Thy praise to merit unrefined. 

When fainting Nature called for aid. 

And hovering Death prepared the blow, 

His vigorous remedy displayed 

The power of art without the show. 

In Misery's darkest cavern known, 

His useful care was ever nigh, 
Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan. 

And iouoly Want retired to die. 

No summons mocked l>y chill delay, 
No petty gain disdained by pride ; 

The modest wants of every day 
Tlio toil of every day supplied. 

His virtues walked iheir narrow round, 
Nor nuido a pause, nor left a void ; 

And sure the Eternal Master found 
The single talent well employed. 

Tho busy day, the peaceful night, 

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 
His frame was firm, his powers were bright, 

Though now Iiis eightieth year was nigh. 

TIn-ii with no fiery throbbing pain. 

No cold gradations of decay. 
Death broke iit once the vital cliain, 

And freed his soul the nearest way. 

1 One of the odd pensioners on Johnson's l)onnty, and an in- 
mate cif liis honse twenty year.«. Mncanlay was tempted 
to refer to him as " nn old quack doctor, named Levett, who 
bU'd and dosed conl-heavers and hackney-coachmen, and re- 
ceived for fees cnisis of brend, bits of liacon, glasses of gin, 
and sometimes a little coppor." Possibly all this luay be a 
trifle unjust. 




From "The Vanity of IIcman Wishes." 

Ill fiill-blowu dignity see Wolscy stand, 
Law iu Uis voice, and fortune iu liis hand : 
To him tlio ehnrch, tlie reahn, their powers consign, 
Throngli him the rays of regal bounty sliine, 
Turned by his nod the stream of honor flows, 
His smile alone security bestows : 
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, 
Claim leads to claim, and power advances power: 
Till conquest unresisted ceased to please. 
And rights submitted, left him none to seize. 
At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watcli the sign to hate. 
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, 
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly: 
Now drops at oiieo the pride of awful state, 
The golden canopy, the glittering plate. 
The regiil palace, the liisnrions board, 
The liveried aruiy, and tlie menial lord. 
With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, 
He seeks a refuge of monastic rest ; 
Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, 
Au<l liis last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 
Siie:ilc thou, whose thoughts at humble peace 
Sliall Wolsey's wealth, witli Wolsey's end, bo thine? 
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, 
Tlie wisest justice on tlie banks of Trent? 
For wliy did Wolsey, near the steejis of fate, 
I'll weak foundations raise tli* enormous weight? 
Why but to sink beneath niisfiutnne's blow, 
With louder ruin to the gulfs below? 


Wliere, tlien, shall Hope and Fear their objects 

fiiiil ? 
Must dull suspense coiTupt the stagnant mind? 
Must liel[dess man, in ignorance sedate, 
Roll darkling down the torrent of liis fate ? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 
Xo cries invoke the mercies of the .skies? 
Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain 
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain. 
Still raise for good the supplicating voice. 
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. 
.Safe iu his jiower, whose eyes discern afar 
Tlie secret ambush of a specious prayer, 
Implore his aid, iu his decisions rest, 
Seciue whate'er he gives, he gives the best. 

Yet when the sense of sacred presence tires, 
Aud strong devotion to the skies aspires. 
Pour forth tliy fervors for a healthful uiiud, 
Obedient passions, aud a will resigned ; 
For love, whicli scarce collective man can fill ; 
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill ; 
For faith, that panting for a happier seat, 
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retre'at : 
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain. 
These goods he grauts.who grants the power to gain ; 
With these celestial W^isdom calms the mind. 
And makes the happiness she does not find. 


Phillips! whose touch harmonious could remove 
Tlic pangs of guilty power and hapless love, 
Rest here, distressed by poverty no more, 
Find here that calm thou gavest so oft before; 
Sleep undisturbed witliin this peaceful shrine. 
Till angels wake tliee with a note like thine. 

IVicljart (J?loner. 

Glover (1713-178.5), the son of a London merchant, and 
liimself a mereliant, published two elaborate poems in 
lilnnk verse — "Leonidas," and " The Atlicnaid." He was 
a member of Piirliainent for several year?, and was es- 
teemed eloquent, intrepid, and incorruptiljle. He wrote 
two or three tragedies, but tliey were not successful oil 
the stage. He edited tlie poems of Matthew Green, and 
seems to have appreciated the peculiar genius of that 
neglected poet. The ballad which we publish from 
Glover's [len is likely to outlast all his epics and plays. 


Ill 1727 the Englisli admirat, Hosier, blockatled Porto-Bello 
with twenty ships, but was not allowed to attack it, war not 
liaving actnal]y brolien ont between England and Spain ; aud 
a peace being patched up, his squadron was withdrawn. In 
1T40, Admiral Vernon (after whom Washingtmi's "Jlount Ver- 
non " was named) took Porto-Bello wiih sis ships. It was ap- 
liarolitly a very creditalilc exploit : but Vernon being au enemy 
of Walpolc's, and a member of the Opposition, it was glorified 
liy them beyond its merits. Glover is here the mouth-piece of 
t!ic Opposition, who, while they exalted Vernon, aflected to pity 
Hosier, who had died, as they declared, of a broken heart, and 
(if whose losses by disease during the blockade they did not 
fail to make the most. 

As near Porto-Bello lying, 

On the gently swelling flood. 

At midnight, witli streamers flying. 
Our triumphant navy rode; 



There, while Vernon sat, all glorious 
From the Siiiiiiiards' late defeat, 

And his crews with shonts victorious 
Drank success to England's fleet ; — 

On a suililen, shrilly sounding, 

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ; 
Then, each heart with fear confounding, 

A sad troop of ghosts appeared ; 
All in dreary hammocks shrouded. 

Which for winding-sheets they woi'e, 
And with looks by sorrow clouded 

Frowning on that hostile shore. 

On them gleamed th<' moon's wan lustre. 

When the shade of Hosier brave 
His pale bands was seen to muster, 

Rising from their watery grave. 
O'er the glimmering wave he hied him 

Where the ISurford reared her sail, 
With three thousand ghosts beside him, 

And in groans did Vernon hail : 

"Heed, oh heed, our fatal story, — 

I am Hosier's injured ghost, — 
Yon who now have iiurchased glory 

At this place where I was lost : 
Though in Porto-Bello's ruin 

You now triumph free from fears, 
When you think on onr undoing, 

Y'ou will mix your joy with tears. 

" See these mournful spectres, sweeping 

Ghastly o'er this hated wave, 
Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping : 

These were English captains brave. 
Mark those niimbers pale and liorrid ; 

Those were (mce my sailors Ixdd : 
Lo ! each hangs his drooping forehead 

While his dismal tale is tuld. 

" I, by twenty sail attended, 

Did this Spanish town attVight; 
Nothing then its wealth defended 

Hut my orders not to fight. 
Oh that in this rolling ocean 

I had cast them with disdain, 
And obeyed my hi'art's warm motion 

To have (]uelled th(^ pride of Spain ! 

"For resistance I could fear ncuie, 
15ut with twenty ships had done 

What thou, brave aiul happy Vernon, 
Hast achieved with six aloue. 

Then the bastimeutos' never 
Had our foul dishonor seen. 

Nor the sea the sad receiver 
Of this gallant train had been. 

"Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying. 

And her g.alleons leading home. 
Though, condemned for disobeying, 

I had met a traitor's doom. 
To have falleuj my country crying, 

'He has played an English part!' 
Had been better far than dying 

Of a grieved and broken heart. 

'•Unrcpiuing at thy glory, 

Tliy successful arms we hail ! 
But retnember our sad story. 

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. 
Sent in this foul clime to languish. 

Think what thousands fell in vain. 
Wasted with disease and anguish, 

Not in glorious battle slain! 

" Hence, with all my train attending 

From their oozy tombs below. 
Through the hoary foam ascending, 

Here 1 feed my constant woe ; 
Here the bastimeutos viewing. 

We recall onr shameful doom. 
And our plaintive cries renewing. 

Wander through the midnight gloom. 

" O'er these waves forever mourning 

Shall we roam, deprived of rest, 
If, to Britain's shores returning, 

You neglect my just request. 
After this proud foe subduing. 

When your patriot friends you see, 
Think oil vengeance for my ruin. 

And for England shamed in. me!'' 

lHUliam Sljcnstouc. 

Shcnstonc (1714-170.S) wns liorn at Lcasowes, In Shrop- 
shire. He received his hiijhcr education at Pembroke 
College, Oxford, but did not take a degree. lu 1745 the 
paternul csUite fell to his care, and, as Jolmson cliarac- 
teristically describes it, he began " to point his pros- 

' Ctitliinento (Ilnliuii), a sbip. 



pects, to diversify his surface, to entangle liis walUs, imd 
to wind liis waters." Descriptions of tlie Lcasowes liave 
tx'cn written by Dodsley and Goldsmitli. Tlie property 
was altosretlier not wortli more tlian £300 per annum, 
and Slienstone liad devoted so mucli of liis means to ex- 
ternal embellisliment, tliat lie liad to live in a dilapidated 
liouse liardly rain-proof. He had wasted liis substance 
in temples, inscriptions, and artitieial walks. At every 
turn tliere was a bust or a seat with on inscription. 

Amoni; tlie inscriptions, that to Miss Dolman is mem- 
oraljle because of a felicitous sentiment in Latin, often 
([noted : " Peramabili sua; consobrinsc M. D. All ! Maria I 
puellarnm elegantissima 1 ab flore venustatis abrepta, 
vale ! i/fw quanio minus est cum reliqult versari, quam lui 
tmniiiiiisf.'" In En^lisli : "Sacred to the memory of a 
most amiable liinswoman, M. D. Ah! Maria', most ele- 
gant of nymphs I snatelied from us in the bloom of 
beaut}' — ah! farewell! AJasI how much less precious is 
it to converse U'ith others than to remember thee T'' 

Shenstone's liighest effort is "The Seliool-mistress," 
said to have been written at eolleee iu 1736. It is still 
read with pleasure. It is in imitation of Spenser, and 
" so delightfully quaint and hidicrous, yet true to nat- 
ure, that it has all the force and vividness of a paintini; 
by Teniers or Wilkie." Of his other poems, comprising 
odes, elegies, and pastorals, few of them are likely to 
endure in the survival of the fittest. 


In Imitation of Spenseii. 

All me ! fnll sorely is my heart forlorn, 
To think how nioilest worth iieglfcteil lies, 
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn 
Sncli deed.s aloue as pride and pomp di,sgiiise ; 
Deeds of ill sort, and iniscLievous eniprize : 
Lend Die tliy clarion, goddess! let me try 
To sound the praise of merit ere it dies, 
Such as I oft have chauc(5d to espy 
Lost iu the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 

In every village marked with little spire. 
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame. 
There dwells, iu lowly shades and mean attire, 
A matron old, whom we School-mi.stress name ; 
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tamo ; 
They grieveu sore, iu piteous durance pent. 
Awed by the iiower of this relentless dame, 
And ofttimes, ou vagaries idly bent. 
For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely 

And all iu sight doth rise a birehen-tree. 
Which learning uear her little dome did stow, 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see. 
Though now so wide its waving branches flow ; 
And work the simple vassals niickle woe ; 

Fin- not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, 
But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat 

low ; 
And, as they looked, tbcy fiuuid their horror grev,'. 

And shaped it into roils, and tingled at the view. 
# * ^ ^ ^ # 

Near to this dome is found a patch so greeu, 
On which the tribe their gambols do ^i'splay, 
Aud at the door imprisouiiig board is seen, 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray. 
Eager, perdie, to bask iu sunny day! 
The noises iiiteruiixed, which thence resoniul. 
Do learning's little tenement betray : 
Where sits the dame, di.sguised in look profonml. 

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 
Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; 
Her apron, dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, 
As is the harebell that adorns the held ; 
And iu her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear en- 
With dark mistrust and sad repentance filled : 
And steadfast hate, and sliarp affliction joined. 
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. 

# * # 7f # # 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame. 
Which ever and anon, impelled by need, 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ; 
Such favor did her past deportment claim : 
And if neglect had lavished on the ground 
Fragment of, she would collect the same ; 
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound. 

What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she 
^ # jf # # *f 

Right well she knew each temper to descry ; 
To thwart the proud, aud the snbmiss to raise ; 
Some with vile copper prize exalt on bigli, 
And some entice with pittance small of praise ; 
Aud other some with baleful sprig she 'frays: 
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 
W'hile with quaint arts the giddy crowd she 

sways ; 
Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold. 

'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold 

Lo ! now with state she utters the command ! 
Efrsoons the urchins to their tasks repair. 
Their books, of stature small, they take in hand, 



Which with pellucid horn 8ecur<S<l are, 
To save from finger Tvet the letters fair ; 
The work so gay, that on their hack is seen, 
St. George's high aehievemeiits does declare, 
Oa which thilk wight that has y-gaziug been, 
Keus the forth-coming rod, nnpleasing sight, I ween. 


To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
Nor art thou found in mansions higher 

Thau the low cot or humble inn. 

"Tis here with boundless power I reign, 
And every health which I begin 

Converts dull port to bright champagne ; 
Such freedom crowns it at an inn. 

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, 
I fly from falsehood-s specious grin ; 

Freedom I love, and form I hate. 
And choose my lodgings at au inn. 

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, 

Which lackeys else might hope to win ; 

It buys what courts have not iu store. 
It buys me freedom at au inn. 

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, 
Where'er his stages may have been. 

May sigh to think he still has found 
The warmest welcome at au inn. 

(LljoinaG (f^raij. 

Tlie son of a London scrivener in noisy Cornliill, Gniy 
(lTlfl-1771) was nnrortunate in his paternal relations. 
His fatlier w:i.s of a liarsli, despotic disposition ; and 
Mrs, Gray was obliged to separate from him, and open a 
millinery shop for her maintenance. To the love of this 
good mother, wlio lived to witness the eminence of her 
son, Thomas owed his superior education. Her brother 
being a master at Eton, the lad went there to school, and 
founil among his classmates young Horace Walpole, with 
whom he became intimate, and afterward travelled on 
the Continent. At (;aml)riclgc Gray .seems to have found 
college-life irksome. He bated matlicmalics and mcta- 
pliysics. He passed his time principally in the study of 
languages and history, leaving in 1738 without taking a 
degree. He iixcd his residence at Cambridge. Severe 
as a stuilent, he was indolent as an author. His charm- 

ing letters, and his splendid but scanty poetry, leave the 
world to regret his laclv of productive industry. He was 
a man of ardent affections, of sincere piety, and practical 
benevolence ; but his sequestered student-life, and an af- 
fectation of the character of a geutlcnian who studied 
from choice, gave a tinge of effeminacy and ])edaniiy to 
his manners that incurred the ridicule of the wilder spir- 
its of Cambridge. 

The secnei-y of the Grande Chartreuse in Dauphin^ 
awakened all his enthusiasm. He wrote of it : " Not a 
precipice, not a torrent, not a elitf, but is pregnant with 
religion and poetry. There are certain scenes that would 
awe an atheist into belief, without the help of other ar- 
gument. One need not have a very fantastic imagina- 
tion to see spirits there at noonday." 

Charles Dickens remarked of Gray tliat no poet ever 
gained a i)laec among the immortals with so small a vol- 
ume under his arm. Gray's first public appearance as 
a poet was in 1747, when his "Ode to Eton College" 
(written in 1742) was published by Dodsley. In 17.51 liis 
"Elegy written in a Country Chureli-yard" was printed, 
and immediately attained a popularity which has gone 
on iuereasiug up to the present time. Tlie " Pindaric 
Odes" appeared in 17.57, but met with little success. 
Gray was offered the appointment of poet-laureate, va- 
cant by the death of Colley Cibber, but declined it, and 
accepted the lucrative situation of Professor of Modern 
History, which brought him in about £'400 per annum. 
He died of gout in the stomach, in the flfty-liltb year of 
his age. 


In a letter to his jmblishcr (17.51), Gray requested that the 
Eletry sliouUl be "i>riutetl without any interval between the 
stanzas, becanse the seuse is in some places continned beyond 
them." In th<ise stanzas to which he refers we liave here en- 
deavored to confoim to his wish by not dividing them. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughiuau homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering land.scape ou the sight. 

And all the air a solemn holds. 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy titiklings lull the distant folds; 
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering uear her secret bower. 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, tlnit yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf iu many a mouldering 

Each in his narrow cell forever l.iid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 



riie breezy call of iiiceiise-brcatbing morn, 

Tbc swallow twittering from tbo straw - built 

The cock's slirill clarion, or the echoing born. 
No more shall rouse tbem from tbeir lowly bed. 

For tbem no more tbe blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife \Ay her evening care ; 

Ko children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to shai'e. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Tlieir furrow oft the stubborn glebe has br(die : 

How jocund did they drive their team a-fiebl I 
How bowed the woods lieiieatli their sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Xnr Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short aud simple annals of the poor. 

Tlie boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all tliat wealth e'er gave. 

Await alike the inevitable hour: 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
Tbe pealing anthem swells the uote of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dnst. 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? 
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnaut with celestial fire ; 
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed. 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of jmrest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of bis fields withstood: 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, 

Sinni' Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Tlie applause of listening senates to command. 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling hand. 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alou6 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
Foi-bade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; — 
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
Or heap the shrine of Lu.\ury and Pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse's tlanie.' 

Far from the nnidding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even bones from insult to protect. 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
Imphu-es the jiassing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 
Tbe place of fame .and elegy supply; 

And many a holy text around she strews 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb Forget fulness a prey. 
This pleasing, anxions being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 

1 Between tliis st.aiiza .ind beginniiitr, "F:u' from the 
mridilinix crowd's i^^noble strife, " came, in Gray's earlier MS. 
draft, Ihcse four st.inzas ninrked nt the side for omission, of 
w liich one is used, iu .111 altered form, lower down : 

"The thonshtless World to Majesty may bow, 
E.^alt the brave, and idolize success ; 
Bnt more to Innocence tlieir safety owe 
Than Power and Genius e'er conspired to bless. 

"And thoii who, miudfnl of th' nuhonnred dead, 
Dost in these notes their artless tale relate, 
By Nii^ht and lonely Contemplation led 
To linger iu the gloomy walks of Fate, 

"Hark how the s.icred calm that broods aronud 
Bids every tierce, tumultuous passion cease, 
In still small accents whispering from the gronnd 
A jirnteful earnest of eternal pence. 

"No more, with Reason and thyself at strife. 
Give anxious cares and endless wishes room ; 
But thnnij;h the cool, sequestered vale of life 
Pursue the silent tenor of thy doom." 



On some fond breast tlie parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops tbe closing eye requires ; 

Even from the tomb tbe voice of Nature cries, 
Even in our asbes live tbeir wouted fires. 

For tbee, wlio, mindful of tbe uubonored dead, 

Dost in tbese lines tbeir artless tale relate, 
If cLance, by lonely Contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit sball inquire tby fate. 
Haply some boary-beaded swain may say, 

" Ot't bave we seen bim at tbe peep of dawn 
Brusbiiig witb basty steps tlie dews away 

To meet tbe sun upon tlie upland lawn. 

"Tlicro, at tbe foot of yonder nodding bcecb, 
That wreatbes its old fantastic roots so bigb, 

His listless lengtb at noontide would be stretch, 
And pore upon tbe brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering bis wayward fancies, be would rove. 

Now drooping wofiil-wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed witb care, or crossed in Iiopcless 

"One morn I missed bim on tbe 'customed bill. 
Along the beatb, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came, nor yet beside tbe rill. 

Nor up tbe lawn, nor at tbe wood was be. 

"Tbe nest with dirges due in sad array 

Slow tbroiigb the church-way path we saw hin\ 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) tbe lay 
Graved on tbe stone beneath yon aged thorn." 


Here rests bis bead upon the lap of Earth, 
A youtb to fortune and to fame unknown. 

Fair Science frowned not on bis humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked bim for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and bis soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely seud : 
He gave to Misery (all he bad) a tear, 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a 

No farther seek bis merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from tbeir dread abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
Tbe busoui of his Father and bis God. 


"Ai'f'pwiror' Ixav*/ irpu^affic ets to 6vavx^1i. — MesanDER, 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers. 

That crown tbe watery glade. 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's' boly sbade ! 
And ye that from tbe stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights tbe expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose sbade, whose tlowers among 
Wandeis tbe hoary Thames along 

His silver-winding way : 

Ah, happy bills! ab, pleasing shade! 

Ah, tields beloved in vain ! 
Where once mj' careless cbiblhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
1 feel tbe gales tbat from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow. 

As, waving fresb their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to soothe. 
And, redolent of joy and youtb, 

To breathe a secoud spring. 

Say, Father Thames, — for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race. 
Disporting on tby luargent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace, — 
Who foremost now deligbt to cleave 
With pliant arm tby glassy wave f 

Tbe captive linnet which inthrall ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase tbe rolling circle's speed. 

Or urge the tlying ball ? 

While some, on earnest business bent. 

Their nnirmnriug labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty, — 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign. 

And unknown regions dare descry: 
Still as they run they look behind. 
They bear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs, by Fancy fed. 

Less pleasing when possessed ; 
The tear forgot iis soon as shed, 

The sunshine of tbe breast ; 

' King Uenry VI.-, founder of the college. 



Theirs buxom Lealtli, of rosy hue ; 
WiUl wit, inveutiou ever new, 

And lively cheei' of vigor born ; 
The thoughtless (lay, the easy night, 
The siiirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly the iipproach of morn. 

Alas ! reganlless of their iloora, 

The little victims phiy I 
No sense have they of ills to come. 

Nor care beyond to-day. 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of hnuian fate, 

Aud black Misfortune's baleful train! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the nutrd'rous band ! 

Ah, tell them they are men ! 

These shall the fury Passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind — 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame, that skulks behind ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart. 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 

Aud grinning Infamy. 
The stiugs of Falsehood those shall try. 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye. 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
And keen Remorse, with blood defiled, 
Aud moody Madness, laughing wihl 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ; in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen, 
Tlie painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That every laboring sinew strains. 

Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings : all arc men. 
Condemned alike to groan : 

The tender for another's paiu, 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet ah ! why should they know their fate. 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 

And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
Thought would destroy their Paradise. 
No more : where ignorauce is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 


lam£0 illcrriclf. 

Merrick (1720-1769) was a clergyman, as well as a 
writer of verse. He produced a version of the Psalms, 
a Collection of Hymns, and a few miscellaneous poems. 
His "Chameleon" is still buoyant among the produc- 
tions that the world does not willingly let die. At Ox- 
foi'd, Merrick was tutor to Lord North. Owing to in- 
cessant pains in the head, he was obliged to abandon 
his vocation of clergyman. 


Oft has it been my lot to mark 
A prond, conceited, talking spark. 
With eyes that hardly served at most 
To guard their master 'gainst a post; 
Yet round the world the blade has been, 
To see whatever could be seen. 
Returning from his finished tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before, — 
Whatever word you chance to drop. 
The travelled fool your mouth will stop: 
" Sir, if my judgment you'll allow — 
I've seen — aud sure I ought to know."— 
So begs you'd pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast. 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed. 
And on their way, in friendly chat. 
Now talked of this, and then of that, 
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter. 
Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
"A stranger animal," cries one, 
" Sure never lived beneath the sun : 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue. 
Its foot with triple claw disjoined ; 
Aud what a length of tail behind ! 
Hew slow its pace! and then its hne — 
Wlio ever saw so fine a blue !" 

"Hold, there!" the other quick replies: 
" 'Tis green ; I saw it with these eyes, 



As late vith open mouth it lay, 
And warmed it iu the sunny ray ; 
Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed. 
And saw it eat the air for food." 

" I've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
And must again afilirm it blue. 
At leisure I the beast surveyed. 
Extended iu the cooling shade." 

" 'Tis green, 'tis gi'een, sir, I assure ye." — 
" Green I" cries the other, in a fury ; 
" Wliy, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes ?" — 
" 'T« ere no great loss," the frieiul replies : 
'•For if they always use you thus, 
You'll find theni but of little use." 

So high at last the coutest rose, 
Fnmi w<uds they almost came to blows : 
When luckily came by a third : 
To him the question they referred ; 
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew. 
Whether the thing was green or bine. 

"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother, 
The creature's neither one nor t'other. 
I caught the animal last night. 
And viewed it o'er by candle-light: 
I marked it well — 'twas black as jet. 
You stare ; but, sirs, I've got it yet, 
And can produce it." — "Pray, sir, do^ 
I II lay my life the thing is blue." — 
"And I'll be sworn that when you've seen 
The reptile, you'll prououuce him green." — 
" Well, then, at once to end the doubt," 
Keplies the man, "I'll turn him out; 
And when before your eyes I've set him. 
If yon don't find him black, I'll eat him." 

He sai<l : then full before their sight 
Produced the beast; and lo! 'twas white. 

Both stared ; the man looked wondrous wise. 
" My children," the chameleou cries 
(Then first the creature found a tongue), 
" You .all are right, and all arc wrong. 
When next yon talk of what you view. 
Think others see as well as you, 
Nor wouder if you find that uoue 
Prefers your eyesight to his own." 

lllark ^kcusibc. 

The author of " Pleasures of Imagination" (17:21-1770) 
was the son of .1 butcher at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. An 
accident in Ids early years — the fall of one of his father's 
cleavers on his foot^romU'rcd liitn lame for life. His 
parents were Dissenters, and Mark was sent to the Uni- 

versity of Edinburgh to be educated lor the Presbyterian 
ministry. He entered, however, the lanks of medicine, 
and received in 17-14 the degree of M.D. from the Uni- 
versity of Leydcn. As a boy of sixteen, he had con- 
tributed pieces of some merit to the Gentknmn''s Mii<]n- 
ziiie. His "Pleasures of Imagination," published when 
he was twenty-three years old, placed him iu the list of 
conspicuous poets. Instead of pressing forward to bet- 
ter things, he passed several years in altering and re- 
modelling his first successful poem ; but he gained noth- 
ing in reputation by the attempt, and died before it was 
completed. His Hymns and Odes are deservedly for- 

Removing to Loudon, Akcnsidc took a house iu 
Bloomsbury Sipiarc, where he resided till his death. As 
a physician, he never rose to eminence. His manner iu 
a sick-room was depressing and unsympathetic. His 
chief means of support were derived from the liljerality 
of his friend Jeremiah Dyson, a man of fortune, who se- 
cured to liim an income of £300 a year. As a poet, 
Akenside may not have reached the highest mark ; but 
his "Pleasures of Imagination " will always be regarded 
as a remarkable production for a youth of twenty-three. 
In our extracts we have preferred the original text. Few 
of the author's subsequent alterations are iniproveincnts. 
Gray ccnsiu-cs the tone of false philosophy which he 
foimd in the ^\■ork. 


From **Tue Pleasuhes of hi.\GixATioN,'* 

Say, why was man so eminently raised 

Amid the vast creation ; why <irdained 

Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, 

With thonglits bej'ond the limit of bis frame; — 

But that the Omnipotent might send him forth 

In sight of mortal and immortal powers. 

As on a boundless theatre, to run 

The great career of justice; to exalt 

His generous aim to all diviner deeds ; 

To chase each partial purpose from his breast: 

And through the mists of passi<ui and of sense, 

And through the tossing tide of chance ami pain, 

To hold his conrse unfaltering, while the voice 

Of Truth and Virtue, up the steeji ascent 

Of Nature, calls him to his higU reward, 

Tlie applauding smile of Heaven? Else wlurel'cuo 

In mortal bosoms this unqucnch^d hope, 
That breathes from day to day sublimer things, 
And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind. 
With such resistless ardor to embrace 
Majestic forms ; impatient to bo free, 
Spurning the gross control of wilful nnght ; 
Prond of the strong contcntiou of her toils; 
Proud to be daring f » » » 




From " The Pleascres of Imagination." 

* * * Tbo liigli-bom soul 
Disdains to rest her lieaveii-aspiriDg wiiij; 
Beiieatli its native quarry. Tired of Earth 
Ami this diurnal seeue, she sjirings aloft 
Tliroiigh tields of air ; pursues the flying .storm ; 
Kides ou the volleyed lightning through tlie 

Heavens ; 
Or, yoked with wliirlwinds and the uortheru blast, 
Sweeps tlio long tract of day. Then liigh she soars 
The blue profound, and, hovering round the sun, 
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream 
Of light ; beholds his unrelenting sway 
Bend the reluctant iilanets to absolve 
The fated rouuds of Time. Thence far effused 
She darts her swiftness up the long career 
Of devious comets; through its l)urning signs 
Exulting measures the i)crennial wlieel 
Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars. 
Whose blended light, as witli a milky zone. 
Invests the orieut. Now amazed she views 
Tlie empyreal waste, where li.ippy spirits hold, 
Beyond this concave Heaven, their calm abode ; 
And lields of radiance, whose unfading light 
Has travelled the profound sis thousand years. 
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. 
Even on the barriers of the world iintircd 
^<he meditates the eternal depth below ; 
Till half recoiling, down the headlong steep 
She plunges; soou o'erwhelmed and swallowed up 
In that immense of being. There lier hopes 
Rest at the fated goal. For from tlie birth 
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said. 
That not in humble nor in brief delight, 
Not in the fading echoes of Renown, 
Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery hq), 
The soul should lind enjoyment ; but from these 
Turning disdainful to an equal good, 
Througli all the ascent of things enlarge her view, 
Till every bound at length should disappear, 
And infinite perfection close the scene. 


From " Tue Tleasures of Isiagination." 

* * * Thns dotb Beauty dwell 
There most conspicuous, even in outward sliape, 
Where dawns the high expression of a mind : 
By steps conducting our eni-aptnred search 
To that eternal origin, whose jiower, 

Through all the unbounded symmetry of things, 

Like rays efl'ulging from the parent sun. 

This endless mixture of her charms diffused. 

Mind, mind alone (bear witness, Earth and Heaven) 

The living fountains in it.self contains 

Of beauteous and sublime: here, hand in hand. 

Sit paramount the Graces ; here enthroned. 

Celestial Venus, with divincst airs, ' 

Invites the soul to never-fading joy. 

Look then abroad through Nature, to the range 

Of planet.s, suns, and adamantine spheres, 

Wliceling nushakeu through the void immense; 

And speak, O num ! does this capacious scene 

With half that kindling majesty dilate 

Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 

Refulgent from the stroke of Ca;sar's fate, 

Amid the crowd of patriots ; and liis arm 

Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thunder, called .ihmd 

Ou Tally's name, and shook his crimson steel. 

And bade the father of his country hail ? 

For lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust. 

And Rome again is free! * * * 

From " The Pleasures of Imagination." 

* * * Through every nge. 
Through every moment up the tract of time. 
His parent-hand, with ever-new increase 
Of happiness and virtue, has adorned 
The vast harmonious frame : Iiis xiarent-hand. 
From the mnte shell-fish gasping on the shore, 
To men, to angels, to celestial minds, 
Forever leads the generations on 
To higher scenes of being; while, supplied 
From day to day with his enlivening breath, 
Inferior orders in succession rise 
To fill the void below. As flame ascends. 
As bodies to their proper centre move. 
As the poised ocean to the attracting Moon 
Obedient swells, and every headlong stream 
Devolves its winding waters to the main ; — 
So all things which have life aspire to God, 
The Sun of being, boundless, unimpaired. 
Centre of souls! Nor does the faithful voice 
Of Nature cease to prompt their eager steps 
Aright ; nor is the care of Heaven withheld 
From granting to tho task proportioned aid ; 
That in their stations all may persevere 
To climb the ascent of being, and approach 
Forever nearer to the Life Divine. 




Froji " The Pleascres of Imagination." 

Oil blest of Heaven ! whom not tlie languid songs 

Of Luxnry, the siren ! not tlie bribes 

Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gandy spoils 

Of pageant Honor, can sednce to leave 

Those ever-blooMiing sweets, whieh from the store 

Of Nature fair Imagination enlls 

To ehariii the eidiveued soul 1 What thongh not 

Of mortal offspring can attain the licights 
Of envied life ; though only few possess 
Patrician treasures or imperial state ; — 
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, 
With richer treasures and an ampler state. 
Endows at large whatever happy man 
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, 
The rural honors his. Whate'er adorns 
The princely dome, the column and the arch. 
The breatlnng marbles and the sculptured gidd, 
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, 
His tuneful bi'east enjoys. For him, the spring 
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem 
Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him, the han<l 
Of Autunm tinges every fertile branch 
With blooming gold, and bln.shes like the morn. 
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings. 
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, 
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze 
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes 
The setting Sun's clfulgence, not a striiiu 
From all the tenants of the warbling shade 
A.scends, but whence his bosom can partake 
Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence par- 
Fresh pleasure only; for the attentive mind. 
By this harmonious action on her jiowers, 
Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft 
III outward things to meditate the charm 
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home 
To find a kindred order, to exert 
Within herself this elegance of love, 
This fair inspired delight : her tempered poweis 
Refine at length, aud every passion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 

* " * Thus the men 
Whom Nature's works can charm, witli God him- 
Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day. 
With his conceptions, act upon his plan ; 
And form to his. the relish of their souls. 

Ulilliam Collins. 

Four years younger than Gray, Collins (17il-lT.5Il) died 
insane at the aire of tliirty-mne. The son of a hatter, lie 
was born at Chichester on Christmas-day, was educated 
at Winchester aud Oxford, and gave early proofs of poet- 
ical ability. He went to London full of hiijh hopes aud 
magnificent schemes. Ambitious and well-educated, he 
wanted that steadiness of application by which a man 
of genius may hope to rise. In 17-10 he published his 
"Odes," whieh had been bought by Millar, the book- 
seller. They failed to attract attention. Collins sank 
under the disappointment. He is said to have purchased 
the unsold copies of the edition, .and burnt thein. He 
became still more indolent and dissipated. In 1750 his 
reason began to fail, and in 17.54 he had become hope- 
lessly insane, 

Residing for a time at Richmond, Collins knew and 
loved Thomson, who is sujiposed to have sketched his 
friend in the following lines from "The Castle of Indo- 

"Of all the gentle tenauts of the place, 
There was a of special grave remark; 
A corlniu tender gloom o'er.=pread liis face, 
Pensive, not sad; in thought involved, not dark. 

Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, 

Ten thous.ind great ideas filled his mind; 

But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace Ijehiud.'' 

Johnson met Collins one day, carrying with him an 
English Testament. "I have but one book," said the 
unhappy poet, " but it is the best." Though neglected 
on their first appearance, the "Odes" gradually won 
their way to the reputation of being the best things of 
the kind in the language. The "Ode on the Passion.s," 
and that to " Evening," are the finest of his lyrical 
works; but his "Ode on the Death of Thomson," in 
its tenderness and pathos, is worthy of being associated 
with them. After his death there was found among liis 
papers an ode on the "Superstitions of the Highlaiuls," 
dedicated to Home, tlie future author of "Douglas." 
Either through fastidiousness or madness, Collins com- 
mittcd to the flames many unpublished pieces. 


How sleep the brave who sink to rest. 
By all their couutry's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Keturns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is mug. 
By forms nnseeu their dirge is sung; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay : 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit tliere ! 




If auglit of oaten stop or pastoi'al song 
May liojie, cliaste Eve, to soothe tliy modest ear, 
Like thy own solemn springs. 

Thy springs, and dying gales ; 

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired Snn 
Sits in yon western tent, whose clondy skirts, 

With hrede ethereal wove, 

0"erhang his wavy bed, — 

Now air is hnshed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
With short, shrill shriek Hits by on leathern wing; 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'mid the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ; — 

Now teach me, maid compose<l, 

To breathe some softened strain. 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening 

May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial, loved return ! 

For when thy folding-star, arising, shows 
His paly circlet, — at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and Elves 

Who slejit in buds the day, 

And many a Njmph who wreathes her brows witli 

And sheds the fresheuing dew, and, lovelier still, 

Tlie pensive Pleasures sweet. 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, 
Or find some rnin 'mid its dreary dells, 

Whose walls more awfnl nod 

By thy religious gleams ; 

Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain. 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine tlie hut 

Tliat, from the mountain's side, 

Views wilds, and swelling flooils. 

And handets brown, and dim-discovered spires. 
And hears their simple bell, and uuirks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, 
And liathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! 

While Snnnner loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light ; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; 
Or Wiuter, yelling tln'ongh the troublous air, 

AtFrights thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends tliy robes ; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, snuling Peace, 

Tliy gentlest influence own. 

And love thy favorite uame ! 


The scene of the following stauzas is supposed to lie ou the 
Thames, near Richmoud. 

In yonder grave a Druid lies, 

W^liere slowly winds the stealing wave : 
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise. 

To deck its poet's sylvau grave. 

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
His airy harp' shall now be laid, 

That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds 

May love through life the soothing shade. 

Then maids and youths shall linger here, 
And, while its sounds at distance swell, 

Shall sadly seem, in Pity's 

To hear the woodland iiilgrim's knell. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
Wlien Thames in summer wreaths is drest. 

And oft suspend the dashing oar 
To bid his gentle spirit rest ! 

And oft, as Ease and Health retire 

To breezy lawn or forest deep, 
The friend shall view you whitening spire,' 

And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 

But thou, who ow-n'st that earthly bed. 

Ah, what will every dirge avail ? 
Or tears which Love and Pity shed, 

Tliat mourn beneath the gliding sail ? 

' Tlie har|) nf Mollis, of which see a desciiption in "The Cas- 
tle of IndoliTice." 
"^ Mr. Thoiiisim was buried iu Richmond Church. 



Yet lives there oue ^\bose lieedless eye 

Shall scoru thy pale sliiiue gliniineriiijj; near? 

AVith him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, 
Aiul Joy desert the blooming year. 

IJut thon, loru stream, whose sullen tide 
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend, 

Now waft me from tlie green hill's side 
Whose cold turf hides the buried frieud ! 

And sec, the fairy valleys fade : 

Dun Night has veiled tlie solemn view ! 

Yet once again, dear jiarted shade, 
Meek Nature's child, again adieu ! 

The genial meads' assigned to bless 
Thy life shall mouru thy early doom I 

Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress 
Witli simple hands thy rural tomb. 

Loug, long thy stone aud poiuted clay 
Shall melt the niusiug Britou's eyes : 

"O vales aud wild woods!" shall he say, 
"In yonder grave your Druid lies!'' 



When Music, heavenly maid, was yoiiug, 
While yet in early Greece .she snug, 
The Passious oft, to hear lier shell. 
Thronged around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembliug, laging, fainting. 
Possessed beyond the Muse's paiutiug. 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refiued ; 
Till ouce, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
Aud, as they oft had heard a|iart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each (for ruled the hour) 
Woulil prove his own expressive 

First, Fear his liand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewildered l.iiil, 

And back recoiled, he knew not why. 
E'en at the sound himself had made. 

' yu. Thnmson resided in tlic neighborhood of Richrnoii:! 
eoine lime before his deiitli. 

Next Anger rushed: his eyes on firo 

III lightniugs owned his secret stings ; 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

Aiul swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With wofiil measures wan Despair, 

Low, sullen souuds his grief beguiled; 

A solemu, strange, aud mingled air, 

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, Hope, with eyes so fair. 

What was thy delighted measure 1 

Still It whispered iiromised pleasure. 

And bade the lovely seeues at distance liail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
She called on Echo still, through all the song: 
Aud where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden 

And longer had she sung, — but, with a frown. 

Revenge impatient rose. 
He threw his blood-stained sword iu thnud;/r, 
And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
Were ne'er jirophetic sounds so full of woe! 
Aud ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat: 
And though soiuetini;>s, each dreary pause be- 
Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien. 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting 
from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were lixed — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of dill'eriug themes the veering song was mixed, 

And now it courted Love, now, i-aviug, called oil 

With eyes upraised, as one iuspircd. 

Pale Melancholy .sat retired, 

Aud, from her wild, sequestered seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet. 

Poured through the nudlow horn her pensive soul ; 

And, dashing soft from rocks around. 

Bubbling runnels joined the .sound. 
Through glades aud glooms the mingled measure 
stole ; 





Or, o'er some liatintoil stream, -nith foiiil delay, 
Eouml a boly calm difiiising. 
Love of peace, and lonely musing, 
lu hollow murmurs died away. 
But oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of Iiealthiest hue. 
Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 
Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung, 
Tlie hunter's call, to Fauu and Dryad known ! 
The oak-crowned Sisters and tlieir chaste-eyed 

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen. 
Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 

And Sport leaped nji and seized his beechcn 
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
He, with viuy crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, 

Wliose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best: 
They would have thought who heard the strain 
They saw, in Tempo's vale, her native maids, 
Amid the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing. 

While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic round: 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
And he, amid his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Sliook thousand odms from his dewy wings. 

O Music! sphere-descended maid. 
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! 
Why, goddess, why, to ns denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
You learned an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endeared, 
Can well recall what then it heard. 
Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? 
Arise, as in that elder time, 
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! 
Thy wonders in that godlike age 
Fill thy recording Sister's page. 
'Tis said — and I believe the tale — 
Tliy humblest reed could more prevail. 
Had uKU-e of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age ; 

' The Dryiids and Diaun. 

E'en all at once together found 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
Oil, bid our vaiu endeavor cease ; 
Revive the just designs of Greece; 
Return in all thy simple state ; 
Confirm the tales her sons relate! 

(Lobias (Pcovgc Smollett. 

Better known as a novelist than as a poet, Smollett 
(1731-1771), a native of Cardross, in Scotland, was edu- 
cated at Dumbarton, and thence proceeded to Glasgow 
to study medicine. Literature and histoiy, however, be- 
came Ills passion. At eighteen he wrote a tragedy, en- 
titled "The Regicide." It never got possession of the 
stage. In 1741 he sailed as surgeon's mate in a ship of 
the line in the expedition to Carthagena, which he de- 
scribes in " Roderick Random." Having quitted the 
service, he resided for a time in Jamaica, where he fell 
in love with Miss LasccUcs, whom he married in 1747. 
He wrote, in 1740, " The Tears of Scotland," his principal 
poem. After passing some time in France and Italy, he 
established himself as a physician at Bath. His health 
declining, he took up his residence at Leghorn, in Italy, 
where he died, aged fifty. 


Written on tlie l^arbarities committed in tlie Higlilands I)y 
the Eiii^lish forces under tlie Dalve of C'nmberland, after the 
battle ofCulIoden, I74C. It is said that Smollett originally fin- 
ished the poem in six stanzas ; when, some one remarking that 
sncli a diatribe against government might injiue his prospect-, 
he sat down and added the still more pointed invective of the 
seventh stanza. 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, monrn 

Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn ! 

Thy sons, for valor long renowned. 

Lie slaughtered on their native ground; 

Thy hospitable roofs no more 

Invite the stranger to the door; 

In smidiy ruins sunk they lie, 

The monuments of cruelty. 

The wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the prey of war ; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife. 
Then smites his breast, and curses life. 
Thy swains are famished ou the rocks. 
Where once they fed their wanton flocks : 
Thy ravished virgins shriek in vain ; 
Thy infants perish on tho plain. 

What boots it, then, in every clime. 
Through the wide-siucading waste of linn', 



Thy martial glory, crowned witli praise, 
Still sliono with imdimiuished blaze? 
Thy towering spirit now is broke. 
Thy ueeli is beuded to the yoke. 
What foreign arms could never quell, 
By civil rage aii<l rancor fell. 

Tlie rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shall cheer the happy day : 
No social scenes of gay deliglit 
Beguile the dreary wiuter night : 
No strains but tliose of sorrow flow, 
And uangbt be heard but sounds of woe. 
While the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 

Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn, 
Accursed to ages yet nnborn ! 
The sous against their fathers stood. 
The pareut shed his children's blood. 
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, 
The victor's soul was not appeased : 
The naked and forlorn nuist feel 
Devonriug flames and murdering steel ! 

The pious mnthcr, doomed to death, 

Forsaken wanders o'er the heath, 

The bleak wind whistles round her head, 

Her helpless orphans ciy for bread ; 

Bereft of shelter, food, and friend. 

She views the shades of night descend. 

And, stretched beneath the inclement skies, 

Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

While tlie warm blood bedews my veins, 
And unimpaired remembrance reigns, 
Eesentment of my country'.s fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat; 
And, .spite of her insulting foe, 
My sympathizing verse shall How : 
" Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn !" 


On Leven's liaidis, while free to rove, 
And tune tlie rural pipe to love; 
I envied not the luappiest swain 
That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 

Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; 

No torrents stain thy limpid source; 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course. 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed. 
With white, round, polished pebbles spread ; 
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood 
In myriads cleave tliy crystal flood; 
The springing trout in speckled pride ; 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
Tlie ruthless pike, intent on war; 
The silver eel, and mottled par. 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze tliy wuters make. 
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine. 
And hedges flowered with eglantine. 
Still on thy banks so gayly green, 
May numerous herds and flocks be seen, 
And lasses chanting o'er the pail. 
And shepherds piping in the dale ; 
And ancient Faith that knows no guile. 
And Industry embrowned with toil ; 
Aud hearts resolved, and hands prepared, 
The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 

2q\]\\ f)omc. 

Home (1723-1808), autlior of "Douglas," was a native 
of Leitli, Scotland, where liis father was town-clerk. He 
entered the Church, and succeeded Blair, author of " The 
Grave," as minister of Athelstaneford. Previous to this 
he had had some niilitiiry experience, and tMkeii up arms 
as a volunteer against the Chevalier. After the defeat 
at Falkirk, he was imprisoned, but effected liis escape by 
cutting his blanket into shretls, and letting himself down 
on the ground. Great indignation was raised against 
him by the Scotch Presbyterians because of his writing 
a play, aud he was obliged to resign his living. Lord 
Bute rewarded him with a sinecure office in 17(iO, and he 
received a pension of £300 per annum. lie wrote other 
tr.agedies, which soon passed into obliviou; but with an 
income of about £600 per annum, and with an easy, 
eliecrful disposition, and distinguished f^iend^hips, he 
lived happily to the age of eighty-six. 


!■ itoM " Douglas," a Tragedy. 

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote 

Aud inaccessible by shi^pherds trod. 

In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 

A hermit lived; a melancludy man. 

Who was the wonder of our wandering swains. 

Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, 

Did they report him ; the cold earth his bed. 

Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. 



I weut to see him, and my heart was touched 

AVith reverence and with pity. MiM he spalie ; 

And, entering on discourse, such stories told, 

As made mo oft revisit his sad cell ; 

For lie had been a soldier in his youth. 

And fought in famous hattles, when the peers 

Of Europe, by the old Godl'redo led 

Against the usurping infidel, displayed 

The hless^d cross, and won the Holy Land. 

Pleased with my admiration and the fire 

His speech struck from me, the old man would shake 

His years away, and act his young encounters. 

Then, having showed his wounds, he'd sit him down. 

And all the live-long day discourse of war. 

To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf 

He cut the figures of the marshalled hosts ; 

Described the motions and exijlained the use 

Of the deep column and the lengthened line. 

The square, the crescent, and the plialanx firm ; 

For all that Saracen or Christian knew 

Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. 

Why this brave soldier iu a desert hid 
Those qualities that should have graced a camp. 
At last I also learned. Unhappy man ! 
Retnroing homeward by Messina's port. 
Loaded with wealth and honors, bravely won, 
A rude and boisterous caj)tain of the sea 
Fastened a quarrel on him. Fierce thej' fought: 
The stranger fell ; and, with his dying breath. 
Declared his name and lineage. "Mighty heaven!" 
The soldier cried — "My brother! oh, my brother!" 
They exchanged forgiveness. 
And happy, iu my miud, was he that died ; 
For many deaths has the survivor suffered. 
In the wild desert, on a rock, he sits, 
Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks, 
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate : 
At times, alas! not in his perfect mind. 
Holds dialogues with his loved brother's ghost ; 
And oft, each night, forsakes his sullen couch. 
To make sad orisons for him he slew. 

InUliam iUason. 

Mason, a native of Yorkshire (1735-1797), was the 
friend and literary executor of Gray, whose acquaint- 
ance lie made at Cambridge. He became chaplain to 
the liing, and wrote plays and odes after Greek models; 
but they lack vitality. In 1781 he published a didactic 
poem, "The English Garden," in blank verse, a stiff and 
much padded production. In one genuine little poem, 
an epitaph on his wife, he seems to be betrayed into 
true feeling, and to escape from that "statelincss and as- 

suraed superiority of manner" which Aikin refers to as 
characteristic of Mason's external demeanor, but which 
seems to have influenced his interior nature so fiir .is to 
have deadened all spontancousness in his poetical utter- 
ances. It should be remarked that the last four lines of 
the "Epitaph on Mrs. Mason" were supplied by Gray. 


Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear ; 

Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave! 
To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care 

Her faded form ; she bowed to taste the wave. 
And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line ? 

Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? 
Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a straiu divine ! 

Even from the grave thou shalt have power to 
Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee ; 

Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move ; 
And if so fair, from vanity as free, 

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love, — 
Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die 

('Twas even to thee), yet, the dread path once 
Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high. 

And bids the pure in heart behold their God. 

flliss I&wt C5lliot. 

Two Scottish national ballads, bearing the narae of 
"The Flowers of the Forest," both the composition of 
ladies, are among the curiosities of literature. The first 
of the two versions, bewailing the losses sustained at 
Flodden, was written by Miss .Jane Elliot (1727-1S05), 
daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot, of Miuto. 

The second song, which appears to be on the same 
subject, but was in reality suggested (according to 
Chambers) by the bankruptcy of certain gentlemen in 
Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Rutherford, of Fairnalie, who 
was aftci-ward married to Mr. Patrick Coekburn, advo- 
cate, and died iu Edinburgh in 1794. She foresaw and 
proclaimed the promise of Walter Scott. 



I've heard them liltiug' at our yowe-milking, 
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn o' diiy ; 

But now they are moaning in ilka green loaning' — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

' Singin;; cheerfully. 

' A broad laue. 



At l)uclits' in the moruiiig, uau blithe lads are 

Tbe lasses are lonely ami ilowie^ and wae ; 
Nae daffiuV nae gabbin',' but sighing and sabbing; 

Ilk ane lifts her leglen," and hies her away. 

Ill hairst, at the shearing,' uao youths now are 

The bandsters' are lyart' and runkled" and gi'ay; 
At fair or at preaching nae wooing, nae fleeching" — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede awaj'. 

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, 
'BoHt stacks wi' the lasses at bogle" to play ; 

But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

Dulo" and wae for the order, sent our lads to the 

Border ! 

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; 

The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the 


The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. 

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milkiug; 

Women and bairns are heartless and Avae : 
Sighing and moaning iu ilka green loaning — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

illrs. aiifia (Uutl)crforb) Cockbuni. 

Mrs. Cockbiiru (1713-1794) was a native of Fairnalie, in 
Selkirkshire. Her fatlicr was Robert Rutherford. There 
seems to be some iluutit whetlier her oue fine lyric was 
not written prior to that of Miss Elliot. Sec further 
particulars, page 193. 


I"ve seen the smiling 

Of Fortune beguiling; 
I've felt all its favors, and found its decay: 

Sweet was its blessing, 

Kind its caressing ; 
Bnt now 'tis fled — fled far away. 

I've seen the forest 
AdornfSd the foremost 

> Peii3 for sheep. 

* Jr)kil)g. 

' Kenpiitii. 
>» Wrinkled. 
>3 Sorrow. 

5 Rnllying. 
' Chiifflng. 
^ Shcaf-bindurg. 
" Coaxiug. 

3 Dre.arv. 
• Mitk-piiil. 
» Giizzled. 
" Ghosu 

With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay ; 

Sae bonny was their blooming. 

Their scent the air perfuming ! 
But now they are withered and weeded away. 

I've seen the morning 

With gold the hills adorning. 
And loud tempest storming before the mid-day; 

I've seen Tweed's silver streams, 

Shining in the sunny beams, 
Grow dniuily and dark as he rowed on his way. 

O fickle Fortune ! 

Why this cruel sporting ? 
Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day ? 

Nae mair your smiles can cheer nie, 

Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; 
For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

©lion- (!?olt)6mitlj. 

Tlie son of a humble Irish curate, Goldsmith (1728- 
1774) was born in Longford Couuty, Ireland. He re- 
ceived his education at the universities of Dublin and 
Edinburgh, aud passed a winter at Leydeu, where he 
lived chiefly by teaching English. After spending nc;ir- 
ly all the money he had just borrowed from a fricud iu 
buying a parcel of rare tulip-roots for his uncle Cont.i- 
riue, who had befriended him, he left Leyclen, "with a 
guinea in his pocket, but one shirt to his back, and a 
flute in his baud," to make the grand tour of Europe, 
and seek for his medical degree. He travelled through 
FUuulers, France, Gerraauy, Switzerland, and Italy — of- 
ten trudging all day on foot, aud at night playing merry 
tunes on his flute before a peasant's cottage, in the liope 
of a supper and a bed; for a time acting as companion 
to the rich young nephew of a pawnbroker; and in Italy 
winning a shelter, a little money, and a plate of maca- 
roni by disputing in tlie universities. 

In 1756 he arrived poor in London, and made a desper- 
ate attempt to gain a footing in the medical profession. 
After working for awhile with mortar and pesfle as an 
apothecary's drudge, he commenced practice among the 
poor of Soutliwark. Here we catch two glimpses of his 
little figure— ouce, iu fiuled green aud gold, talking to an 
old school-fellow in the street; and again, in rusty black 
velvet, with second-hand cane and wig, trying to conceal 
a great patch iu his coat by pressing his old hat fashion- 
ably against his side. 

In 1759 he published his " Present State of Literature 
in Europe:" he also began a series of light essays, enti- 
tled "The Bee;" but tbe "Bee" did not make houey for 
him ; it expired in eight weeks. At Newberry's book- 
store he became acquainted with Bishop Percy, who in- 
troduced him to Dr. Johnson, May 31st, 17G1. About 
tliat time Goldsmith lodged willi a Mrs. Fleming. It 
was iu her lodgings that, being pressed either to pay 
his bill or to marry his landlady, he applied for help to 



Dr. Johnson. On that occasion the MS. of "The Vicar 
of Walcetielil " was produced. Johnson was so much 
struclv with it that he negotiated its sale, and obtained 
£C0 for tlie worlv, whereby Goldsmith was extricated 
from his dilHeulties, and from Mrs. Fleming. 

In 170.5 "The Traveller" was published. Its success 
was inmiediate, and its author was at once recognized as 
a man of mark in all literary circles. The following year 
"The Vicar of Wakefield," which Newberry had not yet 
ventured to publish, appeared, and was welcomed as the 
most delightful of domestic novels. " The Good-uatured 
Man," a comedy, was brought out at Covent Garden in 
ITGS ; and in 17T3 Goldsraith's great dramatic success 
was made in the production of " She Stoops to Con- 
quer," an admirable and well -constructed play, which 
still keeps possession of the stage. The year 1770 saw 
the publication of the most famous poem from his pen, 
"The Deserted Village." 

lu mntnrer age, as in youth. Goldsmith was careless, 
improvident, and unable to keep the money he earned. 
He hung loosely on society, without wife or domestic 
tie. He received £8.50 for "The History of Animated 
Nature," largely a translation from Buffon. But debt 
had him in its talons. Still he would give away to any 
needy person the last penny he had in liis own pocket. 
His cliambers were the resort of a congregation of poor 
people whom he habitually relieved. At last Goldsmith 
grew to be abrupt, odd, and abstracted. The alarm of 
his friends was excited. At that date a literary associa- 
tion used to meet at St. James's Coffee-house. Garriek, 
Burke, Cumberland, Reynolds, and others were regular 
attendants. A night of meeting having arrived, and 
Goldsmith being late, as usual, the members amused 
themselves by writing epitaphs on him as " the late Dr. 
Goldsmith." When he came, these effusions were read 
to him. On returning home, he commenced his poem 
entitled "Retaliation." It was never completed, for fe- 
ver seized him at his work. A doctor being called in, 
asked, "Is your mind at ease?" "No, it is not," were 
the last words Goldsmith uttered. He was seized with 
convulsions on the morning of April 4th, 1774, and died, 
at the age of forty-six. He was £2000 in debt. "Was 
ever poet so trusted before!" exclaimed Johnson. 

Goldsmith is described by a lady who knew him— the 
dauglitcr of his friend, Lord Clare — as one "who was a 
strong republican in principle, and who would have been 
a very dangerous writer if he had lived to tlie times of 
tlie French Revolution." His " Deserted Village " shows 
his profound sensibilities in behalf of the poor and un- 
friended. The verse of this exquisite poem is the con- 
ventionally stiff heroic couplet, but it assumes an ease 
and grace in Goldsmith's hauds which relieves it of all 
artificial monotony. 

The monument to Goldsmith in Poet's Corner, West- 
minster Abbey, bears an inscription in Latin from the 
pen of Dr. Johnson, which says: "He left scarcely any 
style of writing untouched, and touched uotliing that he 
did not adorn; of all the passions (whether smiles were 
to be moved or tears) a powerful yet gentle master; in 
genius sublime, vivid, versatile ; in style elevated, clear, 
elegant. The love of companions, the fidelity of friends, 
and the veneration of readers, have by this monumeut 
honored his memory." 


Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of tbo plain ! 
Where health and plenty clieereil the laboring 

swain ; 
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting Summer's lingering blooms tlelayed I 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and e^ie, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport coulil please. 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm — 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, 
The hawtlioru bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
For talking age and whispering lovers made! 
How often have I blessed the coming day, 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; 
While many a pastime circled in the shade. 
The young contending as the old surveyed ; 
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round ; 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
By holding out to tire each other down ; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's .sidelong looks of love. 
The matron's glance that wouhl those looks reprove : 
Tliese were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are 

Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thj' cliarras withdrawn ; 
Amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brooli reflects the day, 
But, cliolied with sedges, works its weary way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 



Sunk are tliy bowers iu shapeless ruin all, 
Auil the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, iax away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay. 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, e'er England's griefs, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man ; 
For him light labor spread her ■wholesome store. 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more; 
His best comp.anions innocence and health, 
And his best riches ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered: trade's nufccling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp reiiose, 
And every want to luxury allied. 
And every pang that folly jiays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
Those cabn desires that asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful 

Lived iu each look, and brightened all the green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rux-al mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour '. 
Tliy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where ouco the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
Iu all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amid these humble bowers to lay mo down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the llame from wasting, by repose ; 
1 still hopes (for pride attends us still) 
Amid the swains to show my book-learued skill ; 
Around my firo an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw : 
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
Pants to the jdace from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement! friend to life's decline! 
Retreats from care that never must be mine ! 

How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease I 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands, iu guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate : 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. 
While resiguation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be iiast. 
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below : 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
These all iu sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And filled each pause the uightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of i>opulation fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate iu the gale, 
No husy steps the grass-grown footway tread. 
But all the blooming flush of life is fled : 
All but you widowed, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the x>lasby spring; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 
To iiick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn : 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historiau of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a gardeu-flower grow-s wild. 
There, where a few torn shrubs the iilace disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A mau he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his 

place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learued to jirizo, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 



His lioiise was kuowu to iiU tlio vngrant train — 
He chill their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
Tlie long-remembered beggar was his gnest, 
Whose beard, descending, swe^jt his age'd breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to 

And (luite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus, to relieve the wretched was his pride ; 
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt, at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led tlio way. 

Beside the bed Avhere jiarting life was laid, 
And .sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and nuatiected grace. 
His looks adorued the veuerable idace ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
And fools who came to scoff reraaiued to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
Even children followed with endearing wile. 
And plucked his gown to share the good man's 

smile ; 
Ilis ready smile a parent's warmth ex^iressed — 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares dis- 
tressed : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given. 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. 
.\s some tall clift", that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossomed furze nnprofitably gay, 
Tlu'ie, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 

A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant kuew: 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes (for many a joke had he); 
Full well the bus3' whisper, circliug round, 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frwwned. 

Yet ho was kind, or, if severe iu aught. 
The love he bore to learning was iu fault : 
The village all declared how much he knew — 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
For e'en, though vanquished, he could argue still; 
W^hile words of learned length and thundering 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all lie knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its on high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 

Where gray-be.ard mirth and smiling toil retired ; 
Where village statesmen talked with looks pro- 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The whitewashed wall, the nicely-sanded floor, 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures iilaced for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
With aspen boughs and flowers and feuuel gay ; 
While broken teacnps, wisely kept for show. 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks, nor sh.all it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart : 
Thitlier no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily eare ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Eelas his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 



The host himself uo lunger shall be fcmiiil, 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Xor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the ricli deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm than all the gloss of art; 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
I'ncnvied, nnmoleated, uuconfined. 
Bnt the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
An<l, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
The heart, distrusting, asks if tliis be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's jnys increase, the poor's decay, 
"Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a hiippy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shoie ; 
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around; 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name 
That leaves onr useful jiroducts still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes np a space that many poor supplied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage and hounds: 
The robe that wraps his limbs iu silken .sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their 

growth : 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies. 
AVhile thus the laud adorned for pleasure, all 
In barren splendor feeblj- waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and ]daiu, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress sup- 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 
But when those charms are i)ast (for charms arc 

When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress: 
Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed, 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed; 

But, verging to decline, its splendors rise, 

Its vistas strike, its iialaces surprise ; 

While, scourged by famine, from the smiling land 

The mournful peasant leads his humble baud ; 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 

The country blooms — a garden and a grave ! 

Where, then, ah, where shall Poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed. 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there? • 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted froni his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp dis- 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way; 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train : 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure, scenes like these uo troubles e'er annoy! 
Sure, these denote one iniiversal joy! 
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah, turn thine 

Where the poor houseless, shivering female lies: 
She, once perhaps iu village jilenty blessed. 
Has wept at tales of innocence distressed ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 
Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue, fled. 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; 
And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 

With hcavj' h^art deplores that luckless hour 
When idly first, ambitions of the town, 
She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train. 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread I 

Ah nil. To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fixinting steps they go. 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far ditferent there from all that charmed before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 



TiiDsc blazing suns that ilart a dowuward ray, 
And Ijei'ci'ly shcid intolerable day; 
Tliose matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
Hnt sileut bats iu drowsy clusters cling; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned. 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they ; 
While oft iu whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
Tliat only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that part- 
ing day, 
Tliat called them from their native walks away. 
When tlie poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 
Aud took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main. 
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, .and wept for others' woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And blessed the cot where every ple.asure rose ; 
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly ; 
While her fond husband strove to lend relief 
111 all the silent manliness of grief. 

O Luxury ! thou cursed by Heaven's decree. 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! 
Kiugiloms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own : 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe; 
Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as x>ondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady loyalty, aud faithful love. 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where seusual joys invade ! 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame. 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss, aud all my woe. 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well; 
Farewell ! aud oh, where'er thy voice be tried. 
Oil Torno's cliffs, or Panibamarca's side. 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow. 
Or winter wraps tlio polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain, 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gaiu ; 
Teach him that states, of native strength possessed, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade'.s proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 


Of the plnii of this poem, Mjicaiilny snys : "An En2:listi wan- 
derer, seated on a crag among the Alps near tlie point where 
three great conntries meet, loolis down on the boundless pros- 
pect, reviews his lon^r pilgrimage, recalls the variations of 
sceneiy, of climate, of government, of religion, of national char- 
acter which he has observed, and comes to the conclusion, just 
or unjust, that our happiness depends little on political insti- 
tutions, and much on the temper and regulation of our own 
minds." Johnson is said to have contributed the last ten lines 
of the poem, excepting the last couplet but one. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Schelil, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Cariuthiau boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee : 



Still to my biotlier turns with coiiscless pain, 
Aud drags at each remove a lengtheuiug cliaiu. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, aud trim their evening lire ; 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair. 
And every stranger finds a ready chair; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
Or sigh with l)ity at some mournful tale; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destined sneh deliglits to share. 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care; 
Impelled with steps unceasing to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
Aud find no spot of all the world my own. 

Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; 
And placed on high above the storm's career. 
Look dowuward where a hundred realms appear ; 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The iionqi of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine, 
Amid the store, should thankless i)ride re[)iue f 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each luunbler bosciin 

vain ? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
These little things are great to little man ; 
Aud wiser lie, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and siilendor 

crowned ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale. 
For me your tributary stores combine ; 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
Y'et still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still; ' 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup- 
plies ; 
Y'et oft a sigh prevails, and scu'rows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small; 

And oft I wish, amid the scene to find 

Some sjjot to real hapiiiuess consigned. 

Where my woru soul, each wandering hope at rest. 

May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below. 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 

if * T* # # # 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind. 
Why have 1 strayed from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows? 
In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure. 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! 
Still to our.selves in every place con.sigiied, 
Our own felicity we make or find: 
Willi secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel,' 
To men remote from power but rarely known. 
Leave reason, faith, aud conscience all our own. 



Of old, when Scarron his coinpanions invited, 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was 

united ; 
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish. 
Let each guest bring hini.self — and he brings the 

best dish : 
Our dean" shall be venison, just fresh from the 

plains ; 
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; 
Our Will^ shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavor, 
And Dick' with his pepper shall heighten their savor; 
Our Cundicrlaud's sweetbread its place shall obtain. 
And Douglas'' is jiudding, substantial and jilain ; 
Our Garrick's a sal.-id ; for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree; 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am. 
That Kidge" is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb; 

* George and Luke Dosa were two brothers who headed n 
revolt against the Ilniigariau iiol)les in 1.^14; and George, imt 
Jjike, underwent tlie torture of tlie red-hot iron crown as a 
j)nnishnient for allowing himself to he prochiinied King nf 
Hungary by the rebels. ISoswell gives Zec.k as ilieir name. 

Dainiciis (Uobcrt Frani'ois) was put to death with frightful 
tortures, in IT.'"!, for an allempt to assassinate Louis XV. 

a Doctor Barnard of Derry. a William Hurke. 

■' Uicliard Burke. ' C'anou ot Windsor. • An Irish lawyer. 



Tliat Hickoy's' a caimii ; and, by tlie siuiie rule, 
ilagiiiuiimotis Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
At a dinner so various, at such a repast. 
Who'd not be a glntton, and stiek to the last? 
Here, waiter, more wind let me sit while I'm able, 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good dean, reunited to earth, 
AVlio mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If ho had any faults, ho has left ns in doubt — 
At least, in six weeks, I could not iiud 'em out; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cnrsedly cunning to hide 'cm. 
Here lies our good Edmund," whose genius was 

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; 
Who, boru for the nuiverse, narrowed his miud. 
And to party gave up was meant for mankind ; 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his 

To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote ; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on relining, 
And thought of conviucing, while they thought of 

dining ; 
Though equal to all things, for all tliings unfit; 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; 
For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient. 
And too fond of the riijht to pursue the vxpedkiit. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir. 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a 

mint, [was in't : 

^\^liIo the owner ne'er knew half the good that 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; 
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam — 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; 
What was good was spontaneous; his faults were 

his own. [at ; 

* Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh 
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! 
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ; 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ; 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wished him full ten times a day at Old 

Nick ; 

^ Au emiiieut attoruey. 

» EdDuuid Carke. 

But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
As often we wished to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
A nattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw nieu as they ought to be, not as they are. 
His g.allants are all faultless, his women divine, 
And comedy wonders at being so iine; i 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out, 
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
A.\\A coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught? 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? 
Say, was it that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few. 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
Ho grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 

Here Donglas retires, from his toils to relax, — 
The scourge of impostors, tho terror of quacks. 
Come, all ye qnaok bards, and ye quacking divines, 
CiMue, .and dance on the spot where your tyrant 

reclines ! 
Wlieu satire and censure encircled his throne, 
I feared for your safety, I feared for my owu ; 
But now ho is gone, and we want a detector; 
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Keuricks shall lecture, 
Macphcrson write bombast, and call it a style, 
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ! 
New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, 
No eountryman living their tricks to discover; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. 
And Scotehman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the 

Here lies David Garrick, describe mo who can, 
Au abridgment of all that was pleasant in man : 
As au actor, confessed without rival to shine ; 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; 
Yet, with taleuts like these, and an excellent heart, 
Tho man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors ho spread 
And beplastered with rouge his own uatural red. 
Ou the stage he was natural, simple, afi'ecting ; 
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
With no reason on e.arth to go out of his way. 
Ho turned and he varied full ten times a day. 
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; 
Ho cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle 
them back. 


CYCLOPEDIA OF bhitish axd ameiucax poetry. 

Of praise a mere glutton, lie swallowed what eaiiie, 
And the puti' of a duuce he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
Who peppered the highest was surest to please. 
But let us he candid, aud speak ont our mind, 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kiud. 
Ye Keuriuks, ye Kellys, ye Woodfalls so grave. 
What a commerce was yours while you got and 

you gave. 
How did Grub Street re-eclio the sliouts that you 

While he was be - Rosciused, and you were be- 

praised I 
liut peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel, and mix witli tlie skies: 
Tliose poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where lie will ; 
Old Shakspeare receive Lira with praise aud with 

And Beaumonts and Bens bo his Kellys above. 
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, jileasant 

And slander itself must allow him good-nature; 
He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper; 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
I answer. No, no — for he always was wiser. 
Too court^Us, perhaps, or obligingly flat? 
His very worst foe can't accuse; lum of that. 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go. 
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no! 
Tlien what was his failing ? come, tell it, and 

burn ye ! 
He was — could he Iielp it ? — a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, aud, to tell you my mind. 
He has not left a wiser or lietter behind : 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 
His manners were gentle, complying, aud bland ; 
Still born to improve us in every part, 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering. 
When they judged without skill he was still hard 

of hearing ; 
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, 

and stutf. 
He shifted his trumpet, aud only took snutf. 
By flattery unspoiled — 


Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can. 
Though he meirili/ lived, he is now a grave man. 
Rare eompomid of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun; 

Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear ; 
Who scattered around wit and humor at will; 
Whose daily hons-mota half a column might fill ; 
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind 
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ; 
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
Yet content "if the table he set on a roar;" 
Whose talents to fill any station were fit. 
Yet hapjiy if Woodfall confessed him a wit. 

Y'e newspaper witlings! yo pert scribbling folks! 
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes! 
Yti tame imitators ! ye servile herd ! come. 
Still follow yonr master, and visit his tomb. 
To deck it bring with yon festoons of the vine, 
And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
Then strew all around it — you can do no less^ 
Cross-rcadiiifis, sliijMiews, and mistalcs of the pres8. 

Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thji sake I admit 
That a Scot may have humor; I had almost said wit: 
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 
"Thou best-humored man, with the worst-humored 

iLljomas ycni). 

Percy, bishop of Uromore (172S-1811), was the son of 
a grocer, anil a native of Bridgnorth, in Shropsliire. Ho 
was educated at Oxford, and liaving taken holy orders, be- 
came successively chaplain to the kiug, a dean, and then 
a bishop. In 1765 he published his "Reliques of English 
Poetry," the work by which lie is chiefly known. It was 
hirgely inthicntial in awakening a taste for natural de- 
scriptions, simplicity, and true passion, in opposition to 
the coldly correct and falsely sentimental style which 
was then predominant in English literature. Percy al- 
tered and supplemented many of these old pieces, copied 
as they were mostly from illiterate transcripts or the 
imperfect recitation of itinerant ballad-singers. 


It was a friar of orders gray 
Walked forth to tell his beads, 

Aud he met with a lady fair, 
Clail in a pilgrim's weeds. 

"Now Christ theo save, thou reverend friar, 
I pray thee tell to me, 

1 r;ild) Whitofoord. a wriler for the Adrrrtiacr. 

2 Composed mostly of fragmeuts of aucieut ballads. 



If ever at you holy sliriuo 
My true love tboii ditlst see." 

"And how sUoiild I know your true love 

From many auotlier one ?" 
" Oil, by Lis cockle hat and staff, 

And by his saudal shoou : 

'■ But chiefly by his face and luion, 

That were so fair to view ; 
His flaxen locks that sweetly curled. 

And eyes of lovely blue." 

'• lady, ho is dead and gone ! 

Lady, he's dead and goue ! 
At his he;ul a green-grass turf, 

And at his heels a stone. 

" Within these holy cloisters long 

He languished, and he died, 
Lamenting of a lady's love. 

And 'plaining of her pride. 

•• Here bore him barefaced on his bier 

Six proper youths and tall ; 
And many a tear bedewed his grave 

Within you kirk-yard wall." 

"And art tlinn dead, thou gentle youth? 

An<l art thou dead and gone ? 
And didst thou die for love of me? 

Break, cruel heart of stone I" 

" Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so. 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 

" Oh, do not, do not, holy friar, 

My sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth 

That e'er won lady's love. 

"And now, alas! for thy sad loss 
I'll evermore weep and sigh ; 

For thee I only wished to live, 
For thee I wish to die." 

" Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
For violets plucked, the sweetest shower 

Will ne'er make grow again. 

"Our joys as wingi5d dreams do fly; 

Why then should sorrow last? 
Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 

Grieve not for what is past." 

"Oh say not so, thon holy friar! 

I pray thee say not so ; 
For since my true love died for me, ' 

'Tis meet my tears should flow, v 

"And will he never come again? 

Will he ne'er come again ? 
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave. 

Forever to reuiaiii. 

" His cheek was rodder than the rose ; 

The comeliest youth was he ; 
But he is dead and laid in his grave ; 

Alas, and woe is me !" 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more ; 

Men were deceivers ever ; 
One foot ou sea and one on land, 

To one thing constant never. 

" Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found, 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

" Now say not so, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee say not so ; 
My love he had the truest heart — 

Oh. he was ever true! 

"And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth. 

And didst thou die for me? 
Then farewell, home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim I will be. 

" But first upon my true love's grave 

My weary limbs I'll lay, 
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf 

That wraps bis breathless clay." 

"Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile 

Beneath this cloister wall ; 
The cold wind through the hawthorn blows, 

And drizzly rain doth fall." 

" Oh, stay me not, thou holy friar. 
Oh, ?tay me not, I pray ; 



No di'izzl}' laiii tbat falls on nie 
Cau wash my fault away." 

" Yft stay, fair lady, turu again, 

And diy those pearly tears ; 
For see, beneath this gown of gray 

Thy own true love appears. 

" Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, 

These holy weeds I sought, 
And here amid these lonely walls 

To end my days I thought. 

" lint haply, for my year of grace 

Is not yet passed away. 
Might I still hope to win thy love. 

No longer would I stay." 

" Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 

Once more nnto my heart ! 
For since I've found thee, lovely youth, 

We never more will part." 

(Tljomas lUiavtou. 

Thomas Warton, the historian of En<;Tish poetry (172S- 
1790), WHS the second son of Dr. Warton, of Magdalen 
College, Oxford, who was twice clioscn Trofessor of 
Poetry by bis university, and who liimself wrote verses 
now happily consigned to oblivion. Joseph (1723-1800), 
the elder brother of Thomas, was also a poet in a small 
way, and wrote an " Ode to Fancy," hardly up to tlic 
standard of a modern school-boy. Thomas began early 
to write verses. Ills " Progress of Discontent," written 
before be was twenty, and in the style of Swift, is a re- 
markably clever production. It gave promise of achieve- 
ments which he never fulfilled. He was made poetry- 
professor at Oxford in 17.57, and, on the death of White- 
liead in 17S.5, was appointed poet-laureate. His " His- 
tory of English Poetry" (1774-1778) forms the basis of 
his reputation, and is a valuable storcliouse of facts and 
criticisms. Hazlilt considered some of Warton's sonnets 
"the finest in the language;" but this is wholly un- 
merited praise. Coleridge and Bowles also commended 
them. We select out of his nine sonnets the two best. 


Not that lier bloonus are marked with beauty's hue. 
My rustic Muse her votive cbaplet brings ; 
Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings! — 
While slow ly pacing through the church-yard dew, 
^t curfew-time, beneath the dark-green yew. 
Thy pensive genius strikes the moral strings; 
Or borne sublime on luspiuition's -wing-, 

Hears Caudjria's hards devote the dreadful clew 
Of Edward's race, with nuirders foul dehle<l ; 
Can anght ray pipe to reach thine car essay ? 
No, bard divine! For many a care beguiled 
By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay. 
For many a raptured thought, and vision wild, 
To thee this strain of gratitude I pay. 


Hiss Mitfovd, in "Oiu- Village," sa3'S of the Lodou : "Is it 
uot a beautifal liver? ri^illLJ level wiili iis banks, so clear, and 
smooth, and peaceful, {^iviiii^ back the veidant landscape and 
the bviijht blue sky, and bearing on its pellucid stream the 
suowy water-lily, the purest of flowers, which sits enthroned 
on its own cool leaves, looking chastity itself, like the lady in 
' Ctimus.' " 

Ah! what .a weary race my feet li.ave run. 
Since first I trod thy banks with alder.s crowned, 
And thonght my way was all through fairy ground, 
Beneath thy azure sky, and golden snn : 
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun ! 
While pensive Memory traces hack the round. 
Which fills the varied interval between ; 
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. 
Sweet native stream ! those .skies and suns so pure 
No more return, to cheer my evening road ! 
Yet still one joy remains, that uot obscure. 
Nor useless all my vacant days have flowed, 
From youtli's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; 
Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestoweil. 

3ol)u ^L'unninijljaiii. 

Cunningham (172t>-1773), the son of a wine-cooper in 
Dublin, was an actor by profession. " His pieces," says 
Chambers, "are full of pastoral simplicity and lyrical 
melody. He aimed at nothing high, and seldom failed." 


The silver moon's enamored beam 

Steals softly through the night. 
To wanton with the winding stream, 

And kiss reflected light. 
To beds of state, go, balmy sleep — 

'Tis where you've seldom been — 
May's vigil while the shepherds keep 

With Kate of Aberdeeu. 

Upon the green the virgins wait, 
In rosy eh a plots gay. 



Till morn unbars lier golden gate, 
And gives the iironiiscd May. 

MethiulvS I hear the maids declare 
The promised May, when seen. 

Not half so fragrant, half so fair. 
As Kate of Aberdeen. 

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 

We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
The nested birds shall raise their throats 

And hail the maid I love. 
And see — the matin lark mistakes, 

He quits the tufted green : 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead, 

Where midnight fairies rove. 
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead. 

Or tune the reed to love : 
For see, the rosy May draws nigh ; 

She claims a virgin queen ; 
And hark ! the happy shepherds cry, — 

" 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !" 

JJoljn Scott. 

Scott (1730-178.^), of Quaker descent, was the son of 
a draper in London, who retired to Amwcll, wliere the 
poet spent Iiis d.iys in literary ease. He fondly hoped 
I'D immortalize bis native village, on wliicli he wrote a 
poem, "AmweU" (1776); but of all bis works only the 
subjoined Hues arc remembered. 


I hate that drum's discordant sound, 
Parading round, aud round, and round : 
To thonghtless youth it pleasure yields, 
Aud lures from cities aud from fields. 
To sell their liberty for charms 
Of tawdry lace and glittering arms; 
And when Ambition's voice commands 
To march, aud fight, aud fall in foreign lauds. 

I hate that drum's discordant sound. 
Parading round, and rouud, and round ; 
To me it talks of ravaged plains. 
And burning towns, aud riiincd swains, 
And mangled limbs, aud dying gro.aus, 
Aud widows' tears, aud orphans' moans ; 
Aud all that Misery's hand bestows 
To fill the catalogue of human woes. 

lUilliam i'lxlcoucr. 

Falconer (1732-1709), a native of Edinburgh, was the 
son of a poor barber, who had two other children, both 
of whom were deaf aud dumb. When very young, Wil- 
liam was apprenticed to the merchant-service, aud after- 
ward weut as second mate in a vessel which was wreck- 
ed on the coast of Africa; be aud two others being the 
sole survivors. Tliis led to his famous poem of "Tlic 
Sliipwreck," which he published in 1763. The Duke of 
York, to whom it was dedicated, procured for him the 
following year the appointment of midshipman on board 
the Royal George. He eventually became purser in the 
frigate Aurora, and was lost in her, on the outward voy- 
age to India, in 1709. "The Sliipwreck" has the rare 
merit of being a pleasing and interesting poem, and ap- 
proved by all expei'ieuced mariners for the accuracy of 
its nautical rules aud descriptions. 


And now, lashed on by destiny .severe. 
With horror fraught the dreadful scene drew near : 
The ship hangs hovering ou the verge of death. 
Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath ! 

^ # it n if ii 

lu vaiu the cords and axes were prepaied. 

For now the audacious seas insult the yard ; 

High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade, 

And o'er her hurst, in terrible cascade. 

Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, 

Her shattered top half buried in the skies. 

Then headlong plunging, thunders on the ground; 

Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps resound ! 

Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels. 

And quivering with tlie wound, in torment reels ; 

So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes, 

The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows; — 

Again she plunges ! hark ! a second shock 

Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock : 

Down on the vale of Death, with dismal cries. 

The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes 

In wild despair; while yet another stroke. 

With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak: 

Till like tlie mine, in whoso infernal cell 

The lurking demons of destruction dwell. 

At length asunder torn, her frame divides. 

And crashiug siireads in ruin o'er the tides. 

G;rasmus Daraiin. 

Darwin, the grandsire of the more renowned Charles 
Darwin, identified with wliat is kuown as tlie Darwinian 
theory of natural selection in biology, was born in Elton, 



Enfjlnud, in 1731, and died in 1802. He studied at Cam- 
bridge and Edinburgh, and established himself as a pliy- 
siciau at Liehfiekl. He was an early advocate of the 
temperance cause. As the author of "The Botanic Gar- 
den," a poem in two parts — Part I., The Economy of 
Vegetation ; Part II., The Loves of the Plants — also of 
"The Temple of Nature," a poem, he obtained distinc- 
tion in literature. Of an original turn of mind, he seems 
to have had glimpses of the theories afterward expanded 
and illustrated by the labor and learning of his grand- 
son. Byron speaksof Darwin's "pompous rhyme." His 
poems were very popular iu their day, and he received 
£900 for his "Botanic Garden." In it he predicts the 
triumphs of steam in these prescient lines: 

"Soon shall thy arm, uiiconqnercd Steam ! afar 
Drag the slow barge, nr drive the rapid car ; 
Or on wide waving wings expanded bear 
The flying chariot through tlie field of air." 

By his command of poetical diction and sonorous ver- 
sification, he gave au imposing effect to much that he 
wrote, and his verses found enthusiastic admirers. The 
effect of tlie whole, however, is artificial, and his verses, 
though metrically correct and often beautiful in con- 
struction, fatigue by the monotony of the cadence. 

"There is a fashion in poetry," says Sir Walter Scott, 
"which, without increasing or diminishing the real value 
of the materials moulded upon it, does wonders in facili- 
tating its currency while it has novelty, and is often 
found to impede its reception when the mode has passed 
away." The transitoriness of fashion seems to account 
for the fate of Darwiu's poetry. The form was novel, 
the substance As a philosopher, he was 
charged with being too fond of tracing analogies be- 
tween dissimilar objects, and of too readily adopting 
the ingenious views of others without sufficient inquiry. 
He was married twice, and had three sons by his first 
wife. A biography of Darwin, from the German ofErnst 
Krause, was published, 1880, iu New York. Darwin was 
on the side of the American colonists in their war for 


From " The Botanic Garden." 

"Winds of the north! restrain your icy gales, 
Nor eliill tlio bo.som of these happy vales! 
Hence iu dark heaps, ye gathering clouds, revolve ! 
Disperse, ye lightnings, and ye mists, dissolve ! 
Hither, enievging from yon orient skies. 
Botanic goddess, bend thy radiant eyes ; 
O'er these soft scenes assume thy gentle reign, 
Pomona, Ceres, Flora, iu thy train ; 
O'er the still dawn thy placid smile effuse, 
Aud with thy silver sandals print the dews; 
In noon's bright hlaze thy vermeil vest unfold. 
And wave thy emerald banner starred with gold." 

Thus spoke the Genius as he stepped along, 
Aud bade these lawns to peace and truth belong ; 

Dowu the steep slopes he led with modest skill 
The willing i)athway and the trnaut rill ; 
Sfretched o'er the marshy vale you willowy mound, 
Where shines the lake amid the tnfted ground ; 
Raised the young woodland, smoothed the wavy 

Aud gave to beauty all the quiet scene. 
She conies! the goddess! through the whispering 

Bright as the morn descends her blushing car : 
Each circling wheel a wreath of flowers eutwiues, 
Aud, gemmed with flowers, the silkeu harness 

shines ; 
The golden bits with flowery studs are decked, 
Aud knots of flowers the crimson reins counect. 
Aud uow on earth the silver axle rings, 
Aud the shell sinks upon its slender springs ; 
Light from her airy seat the goddess bounds, 
And steps celestial press the pansied groniuls. 
Fair Spring advanciug, calls her feathered riuire, 
And tunes to softer notes her laughing lyre ; 
Bids her gay hours ou purple pinions move. 
And arms her zephyrs with the shafts of love. 


From " The Botanic Garden." 

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height. 
O'er Mindeu's plaiu, spectatress of the fight ; 
Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife 
Her dearer self, the partner of her life; 
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued. 
And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. 
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread. 
Fast by his hand oue lisping boy she led ; 
Aud oue fair girl amid the loud alarm 
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm ; 
While round her brows bright beams of houor dart, 
Aud love's warm eddies circle round her heart. 
— Near aud more near the intrepid beauty pressed, 
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest ; 
Saw on his helm, her virgin hands inwove. 
Bright stars of gold, aud mystic knots of love: 
Heard the exulting shont, "They run ! — they run !"' 
"He's safe!" she cried, "he's safe! the battle's won!" 
— A ball now hisses through the airy tides 
(Some Fury wings it, aud some demon guides). 
Parts the tine locks her graceful head that deck, 
W^ouuds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck : 
The red stream issuing from her azure veins, 
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. 



"All me!'' slio cried; aud, sinking on the ground, 
Kissed lier dear babes, regardless of the wound : 
" Oh cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn, 
Wait, gushing life, oh wait my love's return !" — 
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far, 
The angel Pity shuns the walks of war ! — 
" Oh spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age ! 
On me, on me," she cried, "exhaust your rage!" 
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed. 
And sighing, hid them iu her blood-stained vest. 
From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies. 
Fear in his heart, aud frenzy in his eyes : 
Eliza's name along the camp ho calls, 
"Eliza" echoes through the canvas walls; 
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps 

O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead. 
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood, — 
Lo ! dead Eliza weltering in her blood ! 
Soou hears his listening sou the welcome sounds, 
With open arms and sjiarkliiig eye he bounds. 
"Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand; 
" Mamma's asleep upon the dew-cold sand." 
Poor weeping babe, with bloody fingers pressed. 
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast. 
"Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake: 
Why do you weep? Mamma will soon awake." 
— "She'll wake no more!" the hajiless mourner cried, 
Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands, and 

sighed ; 
Stretched on the ground, awhile entranced he lay, 
Aud pressed warm ki.sses on the lifeless clay ; 
Aud then upsprung with wild, convulsive start, 
Aud all the father kindled in his heart ; 
" Oh heavens !' he cried, "my first rash vow forgive ! 
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live 1" 
Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest, 
Aud clasped them sobbing to his aching breast. 

(Hljarles (!ll)urcl)ill. 

Tlio son of a clergyman in Westminster, Churchill 
(1731-17Ci) was ednciitcd at Cambrkli;c. His father died 
iu 1758, and Charles was appointed his successor in the 
curacy and lectureship of St. John's at Westminster. 
He now launched into a career of dissipation and ex- 
travagance, and was compelled to resign his situation. 
He assisted Wilkes in editing the Xorth Britmi, aud wrote 
a somewhat forcible satire directed against the Scottish 
nation, and entitled "The Prophecy of Famine." But 
his satirical poem, "The Rosciad," gave him his princi- 
pal fame. In this work, criticising the lending actors of 
the day, he evinced great vigor and facility of versifica- 
tion, j'lid breadth and boldness of personal invective 

that drew instant attention. Hazlitt says: "Churchill 
is a fine rough satirist. He had sense, wit, eloquence, 
and honesty." This praise must be qualified somewhat, 
for the satirist does not seem to have been actuated by 
high principle in his attacks. He led a discreditable 
life, and died at Boulogne, of fever, in the thirty-fourth 
year of his age. So popular had his satires been that the 
sale of them had placed liim iu easy circumstances. He 
had ofi"ered "The Roseiad " for five guineas. It was re- 
fused, and he published it at his own risk, \ii success 
surpassing his most extravagant hopes. 


From "The Conference" (1763). 

That ClnuThill felt compunction for ni.iny of his errors is ev- 
ident from the followiug lines, which would seem to have come 
from ttie he.irt. 

Look back ! a thought which borders on despair. 

Which human nature must, yet cannot, betir! 

'Tis not the babbling of a busy world. 

Where praise aud censure are at random luirled, 

Which can the meanest of my thoughts control. 

Or shake one settled purpose of my soul : 

Free and at large might their wild curses roam. 

If all, if all, alas ! were well at home. 

No! 'tis the tale which angry Conscience tells. 

When she, with more than tragic horror, swells 

Each circumstance of guilt ; when stern, but true, 

She brings bad actions forth into review. 

And, like the dread handwriting ou the wall. 

Bids late Remorse awake at Reason's call ; 

Armed at all points, bids scorpiou Vengeance jiass. 

And to the mind holds up Reflection's glass — 

The mind which, starting, heaves the heartfelt 

Aud hates that form she kuows to bo her own. 

From "The Rosciad." 

Lo, Yates! — Without the least of art. 
He gets applause — I wish he'd get his part. 
When hot Impatience is in full career. 
How vilely "Hark'e! Hark'e !" grates the ear! 
When active Fancy from the brain is sent. 
And stands on tiptoe for some wished event, 
I hate those careless blunders which recall 
Suspended sense, and prove it fiction all. 
In characters of low and vulgar mould. 
Where Nature's coarsest features we behold ; 
Where, destitute of every decent grace, 
Uumaunered jests are blurted in your face, — • 



There Yates with justice strict attention draws, 
Acts truly from himself, aud gains applause. 
But wheu, to please himself or charm his %Yife, 
He aims at something in politer life ; 
When, blindly thwarting nature's stubborn plan, 
He treads the stage by way of gentleman, — 
The clown, who no one tonch of breeding knows. 
Looks like Tom Erraud dressed in Clincher's 

Fond of his dress, foud of his person, grown, 
Laughed at by all, aud to himself unknown. 
From side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates, 
Aud seems to wonder what's become of Yates ! 


FaoM "The Kosciad." 

By turns transformed into all kinds of shapes. 
Constant to uoue, Foote laughs, cries, struts, aud 
scrapes ; 

His strokes of humor, and his burst of sport 
Are all contained in this one word — distort. 

Doth a mau stutter, look a-squint, or halt ? 
Mimics draw humor out of nature's fault, 
With personal defects their mirth adorn, 
Aud hang misfortunes out to public scorn. 
Even I, whom Nature cast in hideous mould. 
Whom, having made, she trembled to behold. 
Beneath the load of mimicry may groan, 
Aud find that Nature's errors are my own. 


From " The Rosciad." 

How few are found with real talents blessed! 
Fewer with nature's gifts contented rest. 
Man from his sphere eccentric starts astray ; 
All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way. 
Bred at St. Omer's to the shuffling trade, 
The hopeful youth a Jesuit might have made, 
With various readings stored his empty skull, 
Learned without sense, aud venerably dull ; 
Or, at some banker's desk, like mauy more. 
Content to tell that two and two make four, 
His name had stood in city annals fair. 
And prudent Dulness marked him for a mayor. 
What, then, could tempt thee, in a critic age. 
Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage * 
Could it be worth thy wondrous waste of pains 
To publish to the world thy lack of brains? 

Or might not reason even to thee have shown 
Tliy greatest praise had been to live unknown? 
Yet let not vanity like thine despair : 
Fortune makes Folly her peculiar care. 

A vacant throne high placed in Smithfield view. 
To sacred Dulness aud her lirst-born due ; 
Thither with haste in happy hour repair, 
Thy birthright claim, nor fear a rival there. 
Shuter himself shall own thy juster claim. 
And venal ledgers puff their Murphy's name ; 
While Vanghau or Dapper, call him wliat you 

Shall blow tho trumpet and give out the bill. 

There rule .secure from critics aud from sense, 
Nor once shall genius rise to give offence ; 
Eternal peace shall bless the happy shore, 
Aud little factious break thy rest uo more. 


From "The Kosciad." 

In spite of outward blemishes, she shone 

For humor famed, aud luiraor all her own. 

Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod. 

Nor sought the critic's jiraise, nor feared his rod. 

Original in spirit and in ease. 

She pleased by hiding all attempts to i)lcase : 

No comic actress ever yet could raise. 

On Humor's base, more merit or more praise. 

With all the native vigor of sixteen. 
Among the merry troop conspicuous seen, 
See lively Pope advance in jig and trip, 
Corinna, Cherry, Honeycomb, aud Snip. 
Not without art, but yet to nature true. 
She charms the town with humor, just yet new : 
Cheered by her promise, we the less deplore 
Tlie fatal time when Clive shall be uo more. 


From " The Kosciad." 

No actor ever greater heights conld reach 
In all tho labored artifice of speech. 

Speech ! Is that all ? Aud shall an actor found 
A universal fame on partial ground f 
Parrots themselves speak properly by rote, 
Aud, in sis months, my dog shall howl by note. 
I l.augh at those who, when the stage they tread. 
Neglect the heart to compliment the head ; 
With strict projiricty their cares confined 
To weigh out words, while passion li.alts behind 



■ To syllaljle-disscctors they appeal ; 
Allow them accent, cadence, — fools may feel ; 
But, spite of all tbe criticising elves, 
Tliose Tvlio wonld make us feel must feci tberaselves. 


From " Tue Rosciad.'* 

Last, Garrick came : behind liim throng a train 
Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. 

One finds ont, — "He's of statnre somewhat low, — 
Your hero always should be tall, you know : 
True natural greatness all consists in height." 
Produce your voucher, critic. — "Sergeant Kite." 

Another can't forgive the paltry arts 
By which he makes his way to shallow hearts : 
Mere pieces of finesse, traps for ajiplanse — 
'A vaunt, unnatural start, afiected iiauso !" 

For me, by nature formed to judge with phlegm, 
I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn. 
Tlie best things, carried to excess, are wrong: 
Tlie start may he too frequent, pause too long ; 
But, only used in proper time and place, 
' Severest judgment must allow them grace. 
\ If bunglers, formed on Imitation's plan, 
' Jnst in the way that monkeys mimic man. 
Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace. 
And pause and start with the same vacant face, — 
We join tlie critic laugh ; whose tricks we scorn. 
Which spoil the scene they mean them to adorn. 
But when from Nature's pure and genuine source 
These strokes of acting flow with generous force ; 
When in the features all the soul's portrayed, 
And passions such as Garrick's are displayed, — 
To me they seem from quickest feelings caught; 
Each start is Nature, and each pause is Thouglit. 
*f * * * # # 

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain 
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain ; 
The gods — a kindness I with thanks must pay — 
Have formed me of a coarser kind of clay ; 
Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased, 
A poor dull creature, still with nature pleased : 
Hence, to thy praises, Garrick, I agree. 
And, pleased with Nature, must be ple.ased with thee. 

The judges, as the several parties came, 

With temper heard, with judgment weighed, each 


And in their sentence happily agreed ; 

In name of botli great Sliakspeare thus decreed : 

"If manly sense, if Nature linked with Art, 
If thorougli knowledge of the human heart. 
If powers of acting vast and uncoufiacd. 
If fewest faults with greatest beauties joined ; 
If strong expression, and strange powers which lie 
W^ithin the magic circle of the eye ; 
If feelings which few hearts like his can know. 
And wliich no face so well as his can shoisv, — 
Deserve the preference, — Garrick, take the chair. 
Nor quit it — till thou place an equal there." 

lllilliam Couipcr. 

Cowpcr (1731-lSOO), the son of Dr. Cowper, chaplain 
to George II., was born at tlie rectory of Great Berk- 
liamstcad, Hurtfordsbire. His fatliei's family was an- 
cient, and bis mother's distantly of royal descent. His 
giandfatlier, Spencer Cowper, was Cliicf-justice of the 
Common Pleas, and his grand -uncle was Lord High 
Chancellor of England. When about six years old, Cow- 
per lost his mother, whom he always remembered with 
tbe tenderest affection. At the age of ten he was re- 
moved from a country school to Westminster, where, be- 
ing constitutionally timid and delicate, the rough usage 
he experienced at tbe bands of tbe elder boys had a sad 
effect upon him. 

At the age of eighteen he was articled to an attorney, 
and in 1754 was called to the bar : be, however, never 
made tbe law his study. Receiving tbe appointment of 
Clerk of Journals of tbe House of Lords, his nervous- 
ness was such that he was plunged into the deepest 
misery, and even attempted suicide. The seeds of in- 
sanity soon appeared; he resigned bis appointment, and 
was placed in a private mad-house kept by Di'. Nathaniel 
Cotton, tbe poet. Here, by kind attention, Cowpcr's 
shattered mind was gradually restored for a time. On 
bis recovery, renouncing all London prospects, be set- 
tled in Huntingdon : solitude was bringing back his 
niebmcboly, when he was received into tbe Rev. Mr. Un- 
win's bouse as a boarder, and, in the society of an amiable 
circle of friends, tbe " wind was tempered to tbe shorn 
lamb." On her husband's death in 1767, the poet retired, 
with Mrs. Unwiu and her daughter, to Olney. He found 
a new friend in the Rev. Jobn Newton, tbe curate. But 
in 1773 bis spirit was again, for .about five years, envel- 
oped in tbe shadows of bis malady ; and be again at- 
tempted suicide. The unwearied cares of Mrs. Unwin 
and of Mr. Newton slowly emancipated him from his 
darkness of horror. A deep religious melancholy was 
tbe form of his mental disease. An awful terror that his 
soul was lost forever, beyond the power of redemption, 
bung in a thick night-cloud upon bis life. Three times 
after tbe first attack the madness returned. 

While bis convalescence was advancing, he amused his 
mind with the taming of bares, tbe construction of bird- 
cages, and gardening; he even attempted to become a 
painter. At length, at the age of nearly fifty, tbe foun- 
tain of his poetry, which had been all but sealed, was re- 
opened. Tbe result was the publication of a volume of 



poeius in 1782. The sale of the work was slow, but Cow- 
per's frienils were eafcev in its praise ; and Samuel John- 
son anil Benjamin Franklin reeognized in him a true 
poet. At Olney he formed a close fiieudship with Lady 
Austen. To her he owed the origin of his "John Gil- 
pin;" also that of his greatest work, "The Task." She 
asked him to write some blank verse, and playfully gave 
him the "Sofa" as a subject. Begiuuiug a poem on 
this homely theme, he produced the six books of "The 
Task." In it he puts forth his power both as an ethical 
and a rural poet. Mrs. Unwin became jealous of Lady 
Austen's cheerful influence over her friend, and, to please 
her, Cowper had to ask Lady Austen not to return to 

Dissatisfied with Pope's version of tlic Greek epics, 
Cowper now undertook to translate Homer into Eng- 
lish blank verse ; and, by working regularly at the rate 
of forty lines a day, he accomplished the undertaking in 
a few years, and it appeared in 179L It is a noble trans- 
lation, but has never had the reputation it deserves. A 
pension of £300 from the king comforted the poet's de- 
clining days. But the last and. thickest cloud was dark- 
ening down on his mind, and only for brief intervals was 
there any light, until the ineffable brilliance of a higher 
life broke upon his gaze. His last poem was " The Cast- 
away," which, while it shows a morbid anxiety about 
his soul, indicates no decline in his mental powers. 

Cowper was constitutionally prone to insanity ; but 
the predisposing causes were aggravated by his strict, 
secluded mode of life, and the influences to which he 
was subjected. His cousin, Lady llesketh, was a more 
wholesome companion for him than the curate, John 
Newton; for cheerfulness was inspired by the one, and 
terror by the other. Newton was an energetic man, 
who had once commanded a vessel in the slave-trade, 
and, after a life full of adventure, had become intensely 
religious in a form not likely to have a sanative efl'eet 
upon a sensitive and sympathetic uaturc. 

The success of Cowper's "John Gilpin" was helped 
by John Henderson, the actor, who chose it for recita- 
tion before it became famous. Mrs. Siddons heard it 
with delight; and in the spring of 177.5 its success was 
the event of the season. Prints of John Gilpin Hlled the 
shop- windows; and Cowper, who was finishing "The 
Tusk," felt that his serious work would be helped if it 
were jjublished with his "John Gilpin," of which he 
says: "I little thought, when I mounted him upon my 
Pegasus, that he would become so famous." 

And all their leaves fast fluttering all at ouce. 

Nor less composure waits upon the roar 

Of distant floods, or on tbe softer voice 

Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 

Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as tbey fall 

Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 

In matted grass, that with a livelier green 

Betrays the secret of their silent course. 

Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds. 

But animated nature sweeter still. 

To soothe and satisfy the human car. 

Ten thousand warblers cheer tbe day, and one 

Tbe livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes 

Nice-fingered Art must emulate in vain ; 

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 

In still rejieated circles, screaming loud ; 

The jay, the pie, and even tbe boding owl. 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 

Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh. 

Yet beard in scenes where peace forever reigns, 

And only there, please highly for their sake. 


From "The Task," Book I. 

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
Tbe tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds. 
That sweep tbe skirt of some far spreading wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
Tbe dash of Ocean on bis winding shore, 
And lull tbo spirit while tbey fill tbe mind ; 
Unnumbered branches waving in tbe blast, 


Fnoa "The Task," Book II. 

In man or woman, bnt far in man. 
And most of all in man that ministers 
And serves tbe altar, in my soul I loathe 
All aft'ectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn ! 
Object of my implacable disgust ! 
What! will a man play tricks? will he indulge 
A silly, fond conceit of bis fair form. 
And just proportion, fashionable mien. 
And pretty face, in presence of bis God? 
Or will be seek to dazzle me with tmpes, 
As with tbe diamond on bis lily baud, 
And pl.ay bis brilliant parts before my eyes. 
When I am hungry for tbe bread of lif« ? 
He mocks bis Maker, prostitutes and shames 
His noble office, and, instead of truth. 
Displaying bis own beauty, starves his flock. 
Therefore, avannt all attitude, and 8t:ire, 
And start theatric, practised at the glass ! 
I seek divine simplicity in bim 
Who handles things divine; and all besides. 
Though learned with labor, and though much ad- 
By cnrious eyes and judgments ill-informed, 
To me is odious as tbe nasal twang 
Heard at conventicle, where worthy men. 
Misled by custom, strain celestial themes 
Through tbe pressed nostril, spectacle-bestrid. 





FnoM "The Task," Book III. 

How various bis employmeiits whom tbo world 

Calls idle, and who justly iu return 

Esteems that busy world au idler too ! 

Frieuds, books, a garden, and pei'baps bis pen, — 

Deligbtful industry enjoyed at bome. 

And Nature in bcr cultivated trim 

Dressed to bis taste, inviting bim abroad — 

Can be want occupation wbo bas these ? 

Will he be idle who has much to enjoy f 

Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, 

Not slothful ; happy to deceive the time, 

Not waste it ; and aware that human life 

Is but a loan to be repaid with use, 

When He shall call bis debtors to account 

From whom are all our blessings, — business finds 

Even here ! while sedulous I seek to improve. 

At least neglect not, or leave unemplnyed. 

The miud be gave me; driving it, though slack 

Too oft, and much impeded iu its work 

By causes not to be divulged in vain, 

To its just point — the service of maukiiul. 

He that atteuds to his interior self; 

That has a heart, and keeps it ; has a miud 

That hungers, and supplies it ; and who seeks 

A social, not a dissipated life, — 

Has business ; feels himself engaged to achieve 

No unimportant, though a silent, task. 

A life all turbuleuce and noise may seem. 

To bim that leads it, wise, and to be praised ; 

But wisdom is a pearl with most success 

Sought iu still water and beneath clear skies : 

He that is ever occupied in storms. 

Or dives not for it, or brings up instead, 

Vaiuly industrious, a disgraceful prize! 


From "The Task," Book IV. 

Come, Evening, once again, season of peace ! 

Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! 

Metbinks I see thee in the streaky west. 

With matron steV slow moving, while the Night 

Treads on thy sweeping train ; one band employed 

Iu lettiug fall the curtain of repose 

On bird and beast, the other charged for man 

With sweet oblivion of tbo cares of day : 

Not sumptuously adorned, not needing aid, 

Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems ; 

A star or two, just twinkliug on thy brow. 
Suffices thee ; save that the Moon is thine 
No less than hers ; not worn, indeed, on high 
With ostentatious pa|[eantry, but set 
With modest grandeur iu thy purple zone, 
Resplendent less, but of au ampler round. 
Come, then, and thou sbalt find thy votary calm, 
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift: 
And, whether I devote thy gentle hours 
'i'o books, to music, or the poet's toil ; 
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ; 
Or twining silken threads round ivory reels, 
When they command whom man was born to 

please, — 
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. 


When the British warrior-queeu. 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought, with an indignant niien, 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Every burning word be spoke 
Full of rage, and full of grief. 

"Princess! if our ag^d eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

'Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

"Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt — 

Perish, hopeless and abhorred. 
Deep in ruin as iu guilt I 

" Rome, for empire far renowned. 
Tramples on a thousand states : 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! 

" Other Romans shall arise. 
Heedless of a soldier's name ; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. 
Harmony the path to fame. 

" Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our laud. 

Aimed with thunder, clad with wings, 
SLaJl ;i wider world command. 



"Eegious CfEsar never knew 

Thy posterity sball sway ; 
Wliere Lis eagles never flew, 

None invincible, as (|)iey." 

Such the bariVs iirophetio words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire, 

Bending as he swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride, 
Felt them ill her bosom glow; 

Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

"Ruffians, pitiless as proud! 

Heaven awards the vengeance due : 
Empire is on us bestowed. 

Shame and ruin wait for vou." 


'Tis winter, cold and rude ; 

Heap, heap the warmiug wood ! 
The wild wind hums his sullen song to-night; 

Oh, hear that pattering shower! 

Haste, boy ! — this gloomy hour 
Demands relief; the cheerful tapers light. 

Though now my home around 

Still roars the wintry sound, 
Methiuks 'tis summer by this festive blaze ! 

My books, eompauious dear, 

lu seemly ranks appear. 
And glisteu to my fire's far-flashing rays. 

Now stir the fire, .and close the .shutters fast; 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round ! 
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing uru 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cujjs. 
Which cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let ns welcome peaceful evening in. 



Oh that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
With nie but roughly siuce 1 heard thoo last. 
Tliose lips are thino — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 

Voice only fails — else how distinct they say 
"Grieve not, my child — eh.aso all thy fears away!" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that cau immortalize, 
The art that balfles Time's tyrannic cl.iim 
To queucli it !) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst nio honor with an artless song, 
Aft'octionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey — not willingly alone, 

But gl.adly, as the precept were her own ; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief. 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief — 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dioam that thou art she. 

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hovered tny spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch even then, life's jouruey just begun ? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though nufelt, a kiss; 
Perhaps a tear, if soul.s cau weeji in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — Y'es. 
I heaid the bell tolled on thy burial day; 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; 
May I but meet thee on that iieaceful shore, 
Tlio parting word shall jiass my lips no more. 
Thy maidens, grieved theni-selves .at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
What ardently I wished I long believed. 
Ami, disappointed still, was still deceived — 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus, many a sad to-morrow came and went. 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once wo dwelt our name is heard no more — 
Children not thine h.ave trod my nursery floor; 
And where the g.ardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way — 
Delighted with my bauble co.ach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap — 
'Tis now become a history little known. 
That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 
Still outlives many a storm that has efl"aced 
A thous.and other themes, less deeply tr.accd: 



Thy iiiglitly visits to my cliaiiiber made, 

Tliat tliou mightst know me safe and warndy laid ; 

Tliy morning bounties ero I left my home — 

The biscnit, or confectionery plum ; 

Tho fragraut waters ou my cheeks bestowed 

By tliy own hand, till frcsU they shone and glowed: 

All this, and, more ondeaiing still than all. 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall — 

Ne'er roughened hy those cataracts and breaks 

That bunior interposed too often makes ; 

All this, still legible in Slemory's page, 

And still to be so to my latest age, 

A<lds joy to dnty, makes me glad to jiay 

Sncli honors to thee as my uunibers may ; 

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore tho hours 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
The violet, tho jiink, the jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), 
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Jlight one wish bring them, would I wish them 

here 1 
I wonld not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no — what hero wo, call our life is such. 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constraiu 
Thy unbonnd spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast 
(Tho storms all weathered and the ocean crossed), 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent ou the Hoods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around lier, fanning light her streamers gay, 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the 

" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ;'" 
And thy loved consort, ou tho dangerous tide 
Of life, long since has anchored by thy side. 
Bnt me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always distressed — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; 

^ Slightly misquoted fiom " Tlie Diepensiiry " (1699), a patirl- 
cal poem by Sir Samuel Gartli (1670-lTlS), iu which occurs tlie 
lollowiui; couplet: 

"To die, 13 lauding on some sileut shore, 
Wliere billows uever break, jior tempests roar," 

And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The sou of parents passed into the skies., 
And now, farewell ! — Time, unrevoked, h'as run 
His wonted course ; yet what I wished is done. 
By Contemplation's lielp, not sought iu vain, 
I seem to have lived mj' childhood o'er again ; 
To have renewed the joys that once were mine, 
Without tho sin of violating thine; 
And, while tho wings of fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has bnt half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 


Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are imj more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried. 

Had made tho vessel heel. 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset ; 
Down went the Uoijal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

T(dl for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought. 

His work of glory done. 

It was not iu the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shook : 
She sprang no fatal leak, 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was iu its sheath. 
His fingers held the pen, 

■ The Itoijal George, of lOS giuis, while nndergoiii;; a partial 
careenin;^ in Portsmouth harbor, was overset about 10 a.m.. 
August 2t)tli, 1782. The total loss was believed to be near one 
tboasaud souls. 



Wlieu KfinpenfL-lt went down 
With twice four hundred men. 

AVeigh the vessel up 

Once dreaded hy our foes ! 

And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Mer timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again, 
Full charged witli England's thunder. 

And plough the distant main : 

But Kenipenfelt is gone, 

His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 


M:uy ! I want a lyre with other strings, 

Such aid from heaven as sonic have feigned they 

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
And uudehased by iiraise of meaner things, 
Tliat ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 
I may record thy worth with honor due. 
In verse as musical as thou art true, 
And that imuiortnlizes whom it sings: — 
But thou hast little uecd. There is a Book 
By seraphs writ w ith beams of heavenly light, 
Ou which the ej'es of God not rarely looh, 
A chronicle of actions just and bright; 
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; 
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee 



FnoM " Table Talk." 

In him Demosthenes heard again ; 
Liberty taught him her Athenian strain; 
She clothed him with authority aud awe. 
Spoke from his lips, and in liis looks gave law. 
His speech, his form, his action full of grace, 
.\nd all his country beaming in liis face. 
He stood as some inimitable hand 
Would .strive to make a Paul or Tally stand. 
No sycophant or slave, that dared 
Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 
And every venal stickler for the yoke 
Felt himself crushed at the first word ho spoke. 



John Gilpiu was a citizeu 

Of credit and renown, 
A train-baud captain eke was he 

Of famous Loudon town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
'• Though wedded we have beeu 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

"To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

"My sister, aud my sistert child, 

Myself, and children three, 
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied, "I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
Aud you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall bo doue. 

"I am a linen-draper bold. 

As all the world doth know. 
And my good friend the calender 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Quotli Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; 

Aud, for that wiue is dear. 
We will be fnruished with our own. 

Which is both bright aud clear." 

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; 

O'erjoyed- was he to find, 
Tliat, though on pleasure she was beut. 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, tlie chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to tlie door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the was stayed, 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls, aud all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 



Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folk so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at liis horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing niaue ; 
And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again. 

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he. 

His journey to begin. 
When, turning rouud his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came ; for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew. 

Would trouble him unich more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their miud, 
When Betty screaming came down-stairs, 

"The wine is left behind!" 

"Good lack!" quoth he — "yet bring it me. 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I bear my trusty sword. 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 

Had two stone bottles found. 
To hold the liquor that he loved, 

Aud keep it safe aud souud. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side, 
To make his balance true. 

Tlieu over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat. 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed. 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution aud good heed. 

But fiuding soon a smoother road 

Beneatli his well shod feet. 
The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which galled him iu his seat. 

So " Fair and softly," John ho cried, 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon. 

In spite of curb aud reiu. 

So stooping down, as needs ho must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasped the mane with both his ,hands. 

And eke with all his might. '" 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled beeu before. 
What thing upon his back hail got 

Did wouder more and more. 

Away went Gilpiu, neck or naught ; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamed, when he set out. 

Of runuing such a rig. 

Tlie wind did blow, the cloak did fly 

Like streamer long aud gay. 
Till, loop aud button failing both. 

At last it flew away. 

Tlicu might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung ; 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath heen said or snug. 

The dogs did bark, the children screamed. 

Up tlew the windows all; 
And every soul cried out, " Well done !" 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but ho? 

His fame soou spread around; 
" He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousaud pound !'' 

Aud still as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view. 
How iu a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reekiug head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke. 

As they had basted been. 



But still he seemed to carry weight, 

With leatlieru girdle braced ; 
For all might see the bottle-necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Tlins all throngh merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there ho threw the wash abont 

Ou both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcojiy spied 
Her tender husband, wondering ranch 

To see how he did ride. 

" Stop, stop, John Gilpiu ! — Here's the house — ' 

They all at ouce did cry! 
"Tbo dinner waits, and wo are tired:'' 

Said Gilpiu, "So am I!" 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why? — his owuer had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an anow swift he flew, 

Shot by au archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath. 

And sore against his will. 
Till at his fi-iend the calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim. 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : 

"What news? what news? your tidings tell; 

Tell me yon must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all ?" 

Now Gilpin had a ideasaut wit, 

And loved a timely joke ; 
And thus unto the calender 

III merry guise ho spoke; 

"I came your horse would come: 

And, if I well forbode. 
My hat and wig will soon bo here. 

They are upon the road." 

The calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Returned hiui not a single word, 

Bu* to tlie house went in. 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig ; 

A wig that flowed behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear. 

Each comely in its kind. 

Ho held them up, and in his turn 

Thus showed his ready wit : 
"My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore tieeds must fit. 

"But let me scrape the dirt away, 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case."' 

Said John, "It is my wi'dding-day. 

And all the world would stare. 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware." 

So, turning to his horse, ho said, 

"I am in haste to dine; 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for miue." 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 

For which he paid full dear ; 
For, while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear ; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar. 
And galloped oft' with all his might. 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 
He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why ? — they were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the cojiutry far away, 

She jmlled out half a crown ; 



Aud thus unto tlie youth she said 

That drove them to tlie Bell, 
"This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and -nell." 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain ; 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 

By catching at his rein ; 

But not performing ■nhat he meant, 

And gladly would have done. 
The frighted steed he frighted more, 

Aud made him faster rnu. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels. 
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Sis gentlemen upon the road, 

Tims seeing Gilpin tiy, 
With post-boy scampering in the rear. 

They raised the hue-and-cry : — 

"Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman!" 

Not one of them was mute ; 
Aud all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew opeu in short space ; 
The tollmen thinking, as before. 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too. 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopped till where he had got np 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, Long live the King! 

And Gilpin long live he ! 
And, when ho next doth ride abroad. 

May I be there to see ! 

lUilliam 3uluis fllicKic. 

Micklc (1734-1T8S) was the son of the mniister of 
L:mgliolni, in DiuiiiVicssliire. Not succeeding in trade 
as a brewer, lie went to London in 1764. Here ho pub- 
lished "Tlie Concubine," a moral poem in tlie Spense- 
rian stanz.i. He also translated, tliouijh not very fuitli- 
fully, tlie "Lusiad" of Camoens. MicUle's ballad of 

"Cumnor Hall," which suggested to Scott the ground- 
work of Ills romance of " Kenilworth," is a tame pro- 
duction compared with the charming little poem of 
"The Mariner's Wife," in reg.ird to which doubt has 
been expressed whether Miclcle was really its author. 
It first appeared as a broad-sheet, sold in the streets of 
Edinburgh. Miekle did not include it in an edition of 
his poems, published by himself; but Allan Cunningham 
claims it for him on the ground that a copy of the poem, 
with alterations marking the text as in propcss of for- 
mation, was found among Micklc's papers, and in his 
handwriting; also, that his widow declared that he said 
the song was his. Beattie added a stanza, which mars 
its How, and is omitted in our version. The poem was 
claimed by Jean Adams, a poor school -mistress, who 
died in 17fi5. Chambers thinks that it must, on the 
whole, be credited to MicUle. Dean Trench does not 
feel at liberty to disturb the ascription of this "exqui- 
site domestic lyric" to Miekle. Burns, not too strongly, 
characterized it as "one of the most beautiful songs ii> 
the Scotch or any other language." 


And are ye sure the news is true, 

Aud are ye sure he's weel ? 
Is this a time to think o' wark ? 

Ye jades, fling by your wheel. 
Is this a time to spin a thread, 

Wheu Colin's at the door? 
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, 
Aud see him come ashore. 

For there's nac luck about the house, 

There's nae luck at a'; 
There's little jileasnre in the house 
When our gude-man's awa'. 

Aud gie to me my bigonet, 

My bi,shop's-satiu gown ; 
For I mauu tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers mauu gae on. 

My stockings pearly blue ; 
It's a' to pleasure our gnde-man, 

For he's baith leal aud true. 

For there's nae luck about the house, etc. 

Rise, lass, aud niak' a clean fireside, 

Put on the mncklo pot ; 
Gie little Kate her button gown, 

Aud Jock his Sunday coat ; 
And mak' their slioon as black as slaes. 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 
It's a' to please my ain gnde-man, 

For he's been laug awa'. 

For there's nae luck about the hmise, etc. 



There's twii fat bens iijio' tbo coop, 

Been fed this month and mair ; 
Mak' baste and tbraw their necks abont, 

That Colin weel may fare : 
And spread the table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing look braw; 
For who can tell bow Colin fared 

When be was far awa'. 

For there's nae luck about the house, etc. 

Sae true his heart, sae siuootli bis speech. 

His breath like caller air; 
His very foot has music iu't 

As be comes up the stair; — 
And will I see bis face again ? 

And will I hear bim speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 

In troth, I'm like to greet ! 

For there's nae luck about the bouse, etc. 

If Coliu's weel, autl weel content, 

I ba'e nae mair to crave ; 
And gin I live to keep bim sae, 

I'm blest aboon the lave : 
And will I see bis face again ? 

And will I bear him speak? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 

In troth, I'm like to greet! 

For there's nae luck about the house, etc. 

3ol)n iiongljornc. 

Langhorne (17iii-1779) was a native of Westmoreland, 
and became a preacher in London. Amiable and highly 
beloved in his day, be is now chiefly known as the trans- 
lator of " Plutarch's Lives." He seems to have antici- 
pated Crabbe in painting the rural life of England in true 
colors. He wrote "Owen of Carron," a ballad, praised 
by Campbell; also, "Country Justice," both giving evi- 
dences of a reflned poetical taste. 


On Carrou's side tbo primrose pale, 
Why does it wear a purple hue? 

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale, 

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew ? 

'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood 

That purple grows tbo primrose pale ; 

That pity pours the tender flood 
From each fair eye in Marlivale, 

The evening star sat in bis eye. 
The snu bis goldeu tresses gave, 

The north's pure morn her orient dye, 
To him who rests iu yonder grave ! 

Beneath no high, historic stone, 
Though nobly born, is Owen laid ; 

Stretched on the greenwood's lap alone, 
He sleeps beneath the waving shade. 

There many a flowery race hath sprung, 
And fled before the mountain gale. 

Since first bis simple dirge ye sung ; 
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale ! 

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet 
Hath wandered o'er your meads of gold, 

That dirge I hear so simply sweet 
Far echoed from each evening fold. 

2a\\\t5 Ccattie. 

The son of a small farmer residing at Laurence-kirk, 
in Scotland, Boattie (1735-1803) was educated at Mari- 
schal College, Aberdeen, where in 1700 he was appointed 
Professor of Moral Pliilosopby and Logic. His principal 
prose work, "The Essay on Truth," made some noise 
in its day, but is now little esteemed by philosophical 
critics. George III. conferred on him a pension of £200. 
Beattie's fame as a poet rests upon "The Minstrel," the 
lirst part of which was published in 1771. Written in 
the Spenserian stanza, it gracefully depicts the opening 
character of Edwin, a young village poet. Some of the 
stanzas rise to a strain of true lyric grandeur, but the 
general level of the poem is not above the common- 
place. It gave Beattiu, however, a high literary reputa- 
tion. He bad already corresponded with Gray. He now 
became the associate of Johnson, Reynolds, Goldsmith, 
aud Garrick. In his domestic relations Beattie was un- 
fortunate ; bis wife becoming insane, and his two sons 
dying at an early age. Shattered by a train of nervous 
complaints, the unhappy poet had a stroke of paralysis 
In 1700, aud died m 1803. By nature be had quick and 
tender scusibllitles. A fiue landscape or strain 6f music 
would afl'ect him even to tears. 


From " The Minsthel." 

Oh bow canst thou renounce the boundless store 
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
The warbling woodlaud, the resounding shore, 
Tbo pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; 
All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 



Ami all that echoes to the song of even, 
All that the niouutaiu's shelteriug bosom shielJs, 
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven, 
Oh how canst thou renounce, and hope to be for- 
given ! 

These charms shall work thy soul's eternal healtli, 
And love, and gentleness, and joy impart. 
But these thou nuist renounce, if lust of wealth 
E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart : 
For ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart; 
Prompting the ungenerous wish, the seltisli scheme. 
The steru resolve unmoved by pity's smart, 
The troublous day, and long distressful dream : 
Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purposed 


From "The Minstrel." 

Oh ye wild groves, oh where is now your blnom ! 
(The Muse interprets thus his tender thonght). 
Vnur fiower.s, your verdure, and your balmy gloom, 
Of late so grateful in the hour of drought ! 
Why do the birds, that song and rapture bron;;lit 
To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake ? 
Ah ! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought ? 
For now the storm howls mournful through the 

And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless 


Where now the riU, melodious, pure, and cool, 
And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty 

crowned ? 
Ah ! see, tlie unsightly slime, and sluggish pool, 
Have all the solitary vale embrowned ; 
Fled each fair form, aiul mute each melting sound, 
The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray : 
And harlc ! tlie river, bursting every mound, 
Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway 
U|iroots tlie grove, and rolls the shattered rocks 


Yet sucli the destiny of all on Earth : 

So flourishes and fades majestic Man. 

Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings fortli. 

And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan. 

Oh smile, ye heavens serene; ye mildews wan, 

Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime, 

Nor lessen of his life the little span ! 

I5(u-ne on the swift, though silent, wings of Time, 

Old age comes on apace, to ravage all tlie clime. 

And be it so. Let those deplore their doom. 
Whose hope still grovels iu this dark sojourn : 
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb. 
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn. 
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more returu ? 
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed ? 
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn. 
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, 
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. 

Shall I be left forgotten in the dust. 
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? 
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live ? 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 
With disappointment, peuury, and pain ? 
No : Heaven's immortal Spring shall yet arrive. 
And man's majestic beauty bloom again. 
Bright through the eternal year of Love's trium- 
phant reign. 

From " Tue Minstrel. " 

Tut who the melodies of morn can tell? 

The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side; 

The lowing herd ; the .shecpfold's simple bell ; 

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 

Iu the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 

The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 

The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 

The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love. 

And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crowned with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings; 
The whistling iiloughman stalks afield; and, hark ! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs; 
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour ; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; 
Deep monrns the turtle in sequestered bower. 
And shrill lark carols clear from her ai>rial tour. 

Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 

Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new ! 

Oh for the voice and fire of seraphim. 

To sing thy glories with devotion due ! 

Blessed be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew, 

From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty ; 

And held high converse with the godlike few, 

Who to the enraptured heart, and ear, and eye, 

Teach beauty, virtue, truth, aud love, aud melody. 




From " The SIinstrel." 

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, auil age 
Scarce till the circle of one summer day, 
Shall the poor guat, with tliscoiiteut and rage, 
Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay, 
If but a cloud obstruct the solar raj-. 
If but a momentary shower descend ? 
Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gains.ay, 
Which bade the series of events extend 
Wide through uunnmbered worlds, and ages with- 
out end ? 

One part, one little part, we dimly scan 

Througli the dark medium of life's feverish dream ; 

Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan. 

If but that little part Incongruous seem. 

Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem ; 

Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. 

Oh then renounce that impious self-esteem. 

That aims to trace the secrets of the skies ! 

For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise. 

£ai)ij Caroruu- h'cppcl. 

Born in Scotland about the year 17.3.5, Lady Caroline 
Kcppcl was a daughter of the second Eai'l of Albemarle. 
Robin Adair was an Irish surgeon, whom she married in 
spite of the opposition of her friends. Ho became a fa- 
vorite of George III., and was made surgeon -general. 
He died at an advanced age, not having n)arried a second 
time. Lady Caroline's life was sliort but happy. She 
left three children, one of them a son, Sir Robert Adair, 
G.C.B.,who died in 1S55, aged ninety-two. There is a 
niiivete in the style of lier song whieli makes credible her 
authorship. Beautiful as it is, from tlie unstudied art, 
it is evidently not the work of a practised writer. It 
was set to a plaintive Irish air. 


What's this dull town to me? 

Robin's not near, — 
He whom I wished to see, 

Wished for to hear! 
Wliere's all the joy and mirth 
JIade life a heaven on earth ? 
Oh, they're all fled with thee, 

Robin Adair! 

What made the assembly shine ? 
Robin Adair. 

What made the ball so tine ? 

Robin was there ! 
Wliat, when the jday was o'er. 
What made my heart so sore ? 
Oh, it was parting with 

Robin Adair! 

But now tlion'rt far from me, 

Robin Adair ; 
But now I never see 

Robin Adair ; 
Yet he I loved so well 
Still in my heart shall d\vell : 
Oh, I can ne'er forget 

Robin Adair ! 

Welcome on shore again, 

Robin Adair ! 
Welcome onee more again, 

Robin Adair! 
I feel thy trembling hand ; 
Tears iu thy eyelids stand. 
To greet tliy native land, 

Robin Adair. 

Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 

Robin Adair ; 
Still I i)rayed for thee, love, 

Robin Adair. 
Wheu thou wert far at sea, 
M.-iny made love to me ; 
But still I thought on thee, 

Roliin Adair. 

Come to my heart again, 

Robin Adair ; 
Never to part again, 

Robin Adair! 
Aud if thou still art true, 
I will be constant too, 
And Will wed uono but yon, 

Robin Adair! 

3ol)u 111 1 cot. 

DrJolm Wolcot (1738-1819), who, under llic name of 
Peter Pindar, gained much notoriety as a satirist, was a 
native of Dodbrooke, in Devonsliire, studied medicine, 
and became a practitioner. Wliilo residing at Truro lie 
detected the talents of the self-taught artist, Opie, whom 
he brought to London in 17.S0. Wolcot had now re- 
course to his pen for his support. His "Lyric Odes to 
tlic Royal Academicians" took the town by surprise. 



The justice of many of liis ci'ilicisms, the daring person- 
alities, and the quaintness of the style, were something 
so new that the work was highly successful. He now 
began to launch his ridicule at the king, ministers, op- 
position leaders, and authors, among which last were 
Gilford, Boswell, and Johnson. His popularity lasted 
for nearly forty years. In 179.5 he got from his book- 
sellers an annuity of £250, payable half-yearly, for the 
copyright of his works — a contract which resulted in 
heavy loss to the booksellers. Ephemeral in their nat- 
ure, and lacking the vitality of moral purpose, most of 
his writings have sunk into oblivion. After all his sat- 
ires on George III. and Pitt, he accepted a pension from 
the administration of which Pitt was tlie head. 


I own I like not Johnson's tnrgiil style, 
That gives an inch the importance of a mile ; 
Casts of manure a wagon-load aroninl 
To raise a simple daisy from the ground ; 
Uplifts the clnb of Hercnles — for what ? 
To crush a butterfly, or brain a gnat ! 
Creates a whirlwind, from the earth to draw 
A goose's feather, or exalt a straw ; 
Sets wheels ou wheels in motion — such a clatter! 
To force up one poor nipperkiu of water ; 
Bids oceau labor with tremendous roar 
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore : 
Alike in every theme his i)ompous art — 
Heaveu's awful thunder or a rumbling cart! 


Thonins Warton wrote the following Lalin epigram, to be 
placed inuler the statue of Somlins, in the siu-deu nf Harris, the 
philoloi^ist. In Wolcot's trauslatiou, the beauty aud felicity 
uf the original are well conveyed. 

"Si)nnie levis, qnanqiiain certissima mortis imago 
Cousorteni cnpio te tanien esse tori : 
Alma quies, optata, veui, nam fie sine vita 
Vivere qnam suave est ; sic siue morte mori 1" 

Come, gentle Sleep ! attend thy votary's prayer, 
Aud, though Death's image, to my couch repair ! 
How sweet, though lifeles.s, yet with Life to lie ! 
Aud, without dying, oh how sweet to die! 


A brace of sinuers, for no good, 

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, 
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, 

Aud, in a fair white wig, looked wondrous Cue. 

Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to tr.avel. 
With something in their shoes much worse thai 

gravel ; 
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, 
The priest had ordered pease into their shoes : 
A nostrum famous, in old Popish times. 
For purifying souls when foul with crimes ; 
A sort of apostolic salt, 
That iiopish parsons for its powers •cjxalt, 
For keeping souls of sinners sweet, 
Just as our kitchen-salt keep.^ meat. 
The knaves set off oii the same day, 
Pease in their shoes, to go and pray ; 

But very different was their speed, I wot : 
One of the sinners galloped on, 
Light as a bullet from a gnu ; 

The other limped as if ho had been shot. 
One saw the Virgin soon, "Peecavi" cried. 

Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; 
When home again he nimbly hied. 

Made fit with saints above to live forever. 
In coming back, however, let me say. 
He met his brother rogue about half-way. 
Hobbling, with outstretched hams and bending 

Cursing the souls and bodies of the pease ; 
His eyes in tears, his cheeks aud brow in sweat, 
Aud sympathizing with his aching feet. — 
" How now ?" the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim 
broke : 

"Yon lazy lubber! — " 
"Confound it!" cried the other, "'tis no joke ! 
My feet, ouce bard as any rook, 

Are now as soft as hlubber ! 
Excuse me. Virgin Mary, that I swear! 
As for Loretto, I shall not get there : 
No I to the devil my siuful soul must go ; 
For, hang me, if I ha'n't lost every toe. 
But, brother sinner, do explain 
How 'tis that you are not in pain ; 

What power hath worked a wonder for your 
While I just like a snail am crawling. 
Now sweariug, now on saints devoutly bawling, 

While not a rascal comes to ease my woes ? 
How is't that you can like a greyhound go, 

Merry, as if that luaught had happened, burn 
yc ?"— 

" Why," cried the other, grinning, " yon must 
That just before I ventured on my jouruey, 
To walk a little more at ease, 
I took the liberty to boil mij pease." 



iJamrs illacpljcvsou. 

A native of Kingussie, Scotland, Macplierson (173S- 
1796) was intended for tlie Cliurcli, and reeeived liis ed- 
ucation tliei-efoi- at Aberdeen. In 1758 lie iniblished a 
very ambitious but yeiy worthless poem, entitled "The 
Highlander." The next year he published a volume of 
sixty pages, entitled "Fragments of Ancient Poetry; 
translated from the Gaelic or Erse language." It at- 
tracted attention, and a subscription was raised to ena- 
ble him to travel in the Highlands aud collect other 
pieces. He claimed that his journey was successful. 
In 17G3 he presented the world with "Fingal,"an an- 
cient epic poem in six books ; and, in 1703, "Temora," 
another epic poem in eight books. The sale of these 
productions was immense. That they should have been 
handed down by tradition through many centuries, among 
rude tribes, excited much astonishment. One Ossian was 
the reputed author. Many critics doubted; others dis- 
believed ; and a fierce controversy raged for some time 
as to the authenticity of the poems. How much of them 
is ancient and genuine, and how much ffbricated cannot 
now be ascertained. The Higliland Society were nnable 
to obtain any one poem the same in title and tenor with 
the poems puldished. Macphcrson went to London, be- 
came a successful politician, made a fortune, and obtain- 
ed a scat in Parliament. He retired to his native parish, 
and lived about six years to enjoy his wealth. Gray, 
Hume, Home, and other eminent men believed in "Os- 
sian," and even the great Napoleon was an admirer of 
it in its translated form. 


O thou that rollcst above, 

Ronnil as the sliiekl of nij- fathers! 

Whence are thy beams, O snu ! 

Thy everlasting light ? 

Then comest forth iu thine awful beauty ; 

Tbo stars hide tbera-selves iu the sky ; 

The moon, cold aud pale, siulss iu the western 

wave ; 
But thou thyself mo vest alone. 
Who can bo compauiou of thy course ? 
The oaks of the mountains fall ; 
The mountains themselves decay witli years ; 
The ocean shrinks and grows again ; 
The moou herself is lost iu heaven, 
But thou art forever the same, 
Ecjoieiug iu the brightness of thy course. 
When the world is dark with tempests, 
When thunder rolls and lightning flies, 
Thou lookest iu tliy beauty from the clouds 
And laughest at the storm. 
But to Ossiau tlnui lookest iu vain, 
Eor he beholds thy beams uo more. 

Whether thy yellow hair floats ou the eastern 

Or thou tremblcst at the gates of the west. 
But thou art perhaps like mo for a seasou ; 
Thy years will have an end. 
Thou shalt sleep iu thy clouds, 
Careless of the voice of the morning. 
Exult then, sun, in the strength of thy youth! 


It is night : I am alone, 
Forlorn ou the liill of storms ! 
The wind is heard iu the mountain ; 
The torrent pours down the rock ; 
No hut receives me from the rain, 
Forlorn on the hill of winds ! 

Rise, moou ! from behind thy clouds. 
Stars of the night, arise ! 
Lend me some light to the place 
Where my Love rests from the chase aloue- 
His bow near liim unstrung; 
His dogs pantiug around him ! 
But here I must sit alone 
By the rock of the mossy stream. 
The stream and the wind roar aloud ; 
I hear not the voice of my love. 
Why delays my Salgar, 
Why the chief of the hill his promise f 
Here is the rock, and here the tree, 
And here is the roaring stream ! 
Thou didst promise with uight to be here. 
Ah ! whither is my Salgar gone ? 
With thee I would fly from my father ; 
With thee from my brother of pride. 
Long have our race been foes ; 
We are not foes, O Salgar ! 

Cease a little while, O wind ! 
Stream, be thou silent awhile ! 
Let my voiee bo heard around ; 
Let my wanderer hear me. 
Salgar, it is Colma who calls! 
Here is the tree and the rock ; 
Salgar, my Love, I am here ; 
Why dclayest thou thy coming? 
Lo ! the calm moon comes forth ; 
The flood is bright in the vale ; 
The rocks are gray ou the steep : 
I see him not ou the brow; 
His dogs come not before him 
AVith tidings of his near approach, 
Here I must sit aloue! 



53'atljanicl Nilcs. 


Nilcs (1T39-1828) was n grandson of Samuel Niles, the 
minister of Braintree, Mass.,-nlio was an author of some 
little note. Nathaniel was a graduate of Princeton Col- 
lege in 1770, and Master of Arts of Harvard in 1773. He 
settled in West Fairlee, Vermont, where he became Dis- 
trict Judge of the United States. He preached occa- 
sionally as a Presbyterian minister, at Norwich, Conn., 
dnring the Revolution. He wrote several theological 
treatises, but will be remembered chielly by his patriotic 
Ode in Sapphic and Adonic verse. It is superior to much 
that was current as poetry in his day. He died at the 
advanced age of eighty-nine. 


An Ode, written at the lime of the American Revohuion, at 
Norwich, Conu., October, 17T5. 

Why should vaiu mortals tremble at the sight of 
Death and destriietiou iu the iield of battle, 
Where blood aud carnage clothe the ground in 

Sounding with death-groans? 

Death will invade us by the means appointed, 
And we must all bow to the king of terrors ; 
Nor am I anxious, if I am prepar<;d, 
What shape he conies iu. 

Infinite Goodness teaches ns submission, 
Bids ns be quiet imder all his dealings; 
Never repining, but forever praising 
God, our Creator. 

Well may we praise liiin : all his ways are perfect ; 
Though a resplendence, infinitely glowing. 
Dazzles in glory ou the sight of mortals. 
Struck blind by lustre. 

Good is Jehovah in bestowing sunshine, 
Nor less his goodness in the storm aud thunder, 
Mercies and jiulgmeut both proceed from kindness. 
Infinite kindness. 

Oh, then, exult that God forever reigneth ; 
Clonds which around him hinder our perception, 
Bliul us the stronger to exalt his name, and 
Shout louder praises. 

Then to the wisdom of my Lord and Master 
I will commit all that I have or wish for, 
Sweetly as babes sleep will I give my life up. 
When called to yield it. 

Now, Mars, I dttre thee, clad in smoky pillars, 
Bur.sting from bomb-.shells, roariug from the cannon. 
Rattling iu grape-.shot like a storm of hailstones. 
Torturing ether. 

Up the bleak heavens let the spreading flames rise, 
Breaking, like Etna, through the smoky columns. 
Lowering, like Egypt, o'er the falling city, 
Wantonly burnt down.' ^ 

While all their hearts quick palpitate for havoc, 
Let slip your blood-hounds, named the British lions ; 
Dauntless as death stares, nimble as the whirlwind, 
Dreadful as demons ! 

Let oceans waft on all your floating castles, 
Fraught with destruction, horrible to nature; 
Then, with your sails filled by a storm of vengeance, 
Bear dowu to battle. 

From the dire caverns, made by ghostly miners,. 
Let the explosion, dreadful as volcanoes. 
Heave the broad town, with all its wealth and 

Quick to destruction. 

Still shall the banner of the King of Heaven 
Never advance where I'm afraid to follow ; 
While that precedes me, with an open bosom. 
War, I defy thee ! 

Fame and dear freedom lure me on to battle. 
While a fell despot, grimmer than a death's-head. 
Stings me with serpents, fiercer than Medusa's, 
To the encounter. 

Life, for my country and the cause of fieedotn, 
Is but a trifle for a worm to part with ; 
And, if preserved in so great a contest. 
Life is redoubled. 

Augustus ittontaguc Coplabn. 

Toplady, a zealous advocate of Calvinism, was born at 
Farnliam, in Surrey, 1740, and died 1778. He was edu- 
cated at Trinity College, Dublin, and became vicar of 
Broad Hcnbury, in Devonshire. He was a strenuotis 
opponent of Wesley. His theological works form six 
volumes ; but his memory is kept green less by them 
than by a few popular hymns. 

* A reference to the burning of Charlestowu, near Boston, 
by the British. 




Deathless principle, arise ! 
Soar, tbon native of the skies ! 
Pearl of price, by Jesus bought, 
To his glorious likeness wrought '. 
Go, to shine before his throne. 
Deck his mediatorial crown ; 
Go, his triumphs to adorn — 
Made for God, to God return ! 

Lo, he beckons from on high ! 
Fearless to his presence lly : 
Thine the merit of his blood. 
Thine the righteousness of God ! 
Angels, joyful to attend, 
Hovering, round thy pillow bend ; 
Wait to catch the signal given, 
And escort thee quick to heaven. 

Is thy earthly house distressed. 

Willing to retain its guest ? 

'Tis not thou, but she, must die — 

Fly, celestial tenant, fly ! 

Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay, 

Sweetly breathe thyself away; — 

Singing, to thy crown remove, 

Swift of wing, and fired with love! 

Shudder not to pass the stream. 
Venture all thy care on Him ; 
Him whoso dying love and power 
Stilled its tossing, hushed its roar: 
Safe is the expauded wave. 
Gentle as a summer's eve ; 
Not one object of his care 
Ever suffered shipwreck there. 

See the haven full in view ; 

Love divine shall bear thee through : 

Trust to that jn'opitions gale. 

Weigh thy anchor, spread thy sail ! 

Saiuts, in glory perfect made. 

Wait thy passage through the shade ; 

Ardent for thy coining o'er. 

See, they throng the blissful shore ! 

Mount, their transports to improve ; 
Join the longing choir above! 
Swiftly to their wish he given ; 
Kindle higher joy in heaven ! 
Such the prospects that arise 
To the dying Christian's eyes ! 

Such the glorious vista faith 
Ojieus through the shades of death! 


Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in thee ! 

Let the water and the blood 

From thy riven side which flowed, 

Be of sin the double cure, 

Cle.anse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labor of my hands 
Can fi\Ifil thy law's demands: 
Could my zeal no respite know, 
Could my tears forever flow. 
All for sin could not atone ; 
Thou must save, and thou alone ! 

Nothing in my hand 1 bring; 
Simply to thy cross I cling : 
Naked, come to thee for dress ; 
Heljiless, look to tliee for grace ; 
Foul, I to the Fountain fly — 
Wash me, Saviour, or I die ! 

While I draw this fleeting breath, 
Wlien my eye-strings break in death, 
When I soar through tracts unknown. 
See thee on thy judgment-throne, — 
Roclc of Ages, cleft for me. 
Let me hide mvself in thee ! 

3ol)u Cruicn. 

Ewcn was born iit Montrose, Scotland, in 1741, and 
died at Aberdeen in 1831. Burns says of tliis song: 
"It is a clianning display of womanly aflVction mingling 
with the concerns and occupations of life. It is nearly 
equal to 'There's ftac luck about llic house.' " 


O weel may the boatie row. 

And better may she speed 1 
And weel may the boatie row 

That wins the bairnies' bread! 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 

That wishes her to speed ! 



I ciiist my line in Lnrgo Bay, 

And fishes I caugbt nine ; 
Tliere's three to boil, and three to fry. 

And three to bait the line. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

Tlie boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy bo the lot of a' 

That wishes her to speed ! 

Oh weel may the boatie row 

That fills a heavy creel," 
And cleads us a' frae head to feet. 

And bnys our parritch meal. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 

That wish the boatie speed ! 

When Jamie vowed he wonld be mine. 

And wau frae me my heart. 
Oh muckle lighter grew my creel ! 

He swore we'd never part. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
And muckle lighter is the lade 

When love bears up the creel. 

My kiirtch I put upon my head, 

And dressed mysel' fu' braw ; 
I trow my heart was dowf^ and wae 

When Jamie gaed awa' : 
Bnt weel may the boatie row, 

Aud lucky be her part ; 
And lightsome be the lassie's care 

That yields au honest heart ! 

When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie 

Are up, and gotten lear,' 
They'll help to gar the boatie row. 

And lighten all our care. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows fn' weel; 
Aud lightsome be her heart that bears 

The murlaiu and the creel ! 

And when wi' age we are worn down. 
And hirpling round the door, 

They'll row to keep us bale aud warm, 
As we did them before : 

Then weel may the boatie row 
That wins the bairuies' bread : 

And bapiiy be the lot of a' 
That wish the boat to speed! 

illis. ^nnc iljuntcr. 

Mrs. Hunter (1743-1831) was the sister of Sir Evcrard 
Home, and wife of John Hunter, celebrated as " the 
greatest man who ever practised surgery.".^ She wrote 
songs that Haydn set to music, and iu 1806 published a 
volume of lier poems. 


The suu sets in night, and the stars shun the day, 
But glory remains when their lights fade away : 
Begin, you tormentors ! your threats are in vain. 
For the son of Alkuomook will never complain. 

Kemeniber the arrows he shot from his bow. 
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low : 
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the 

pain ? 
No ; the sou of Alkuomook shall uever complain. 

Kemeniber the wood where in ambush we lay, 
Aud the scalps which we bore from your uation 

away : 
Now the flame fast ; you exult iu my pain ; 
Bnt the son of Alkuomook can uever complain. 

I go to the land where my father is gone, 
His ghost shall rejoice iu the fame of his sou ; 
Death comes like a friend to relieve me from jjaiu; 
Aud thy son, O Alkuomook ! has scorned to com- 

fJlrs. ©rant of dlarron. 

Mrs. Grant {circa 1743-1814), the author of a song still 
popular, was born in Ireland, of Scottish parents. She 
married, first her cousin, Mr. Grant of Carron, about the 
year 1763 ; and, secondly. Dr. Murray, a physician in 
Batli. The song we quote was a favorite with Burns. 

1 Basket. 


3 Leaniius. 


Roy's wife of Aldivalloeh, 

Roy's wife of Aldivalloeh, 

Wat ye how she cheated me 

As I cam' o'er the braes o' Balloch 1 

She vowed, she swore she wad be mine. 
She said she lo'ed me best o' ouie ; 



But, all ! the fickle, faithless quean, 

She's ta'en the cavl, and left her Johnnie. 
Koy's Tvife of Alilivalloeh, etc. 

Oh, she was a canty qnean, 

Au' weel conlil dance the Hiolaud walloch 
How happy I had she been mine. 

Or I been Eoy of Aldivalloch ! 

Roy's wife of Alilivalloeh, etc. 

Her hair sae fair, her eeu sae clear. 

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie ! 

To me she ever will be dear. 

Though she's forever left her Johnnie. 
Eoy's wife of Aldivalloch, etc. 

Qinna Cctitia (-liliin) Savbaulii. 

Mrs. BarbauUl (1743-1825) was .1 native of Kibworth, 
Leicestershire. Her fatlier, Mr. Ailiin, kept a seminary 
for tlie education of boys; and Anna, under Iiis guidance, 
became a classical sciiolar. In 1773 slie published a vol- 
ume of poems, which went through four editions in one 
year. Her often quoted "Ode to Spring" would be ad- 
mirable were it not too much an echo of Collins's "Ode 
to Evening," the measure of which it reproduces. In 
1774 slie married the Rev. Mr. Barbauld, a French Prot- 
estant, and in 1776 tliey cstablislied tlicmsclves at Hamp- 
stead. " Eveniugs at Home," the joint production of 
lierscif and lier brother, Dr. John Aikiii, is still a favorite 
work for children and youth. Johnson, who hated Dis- 
senters, is credited by Boswell with a remark he per- 
haps regretted: "Miss Aikin was an instance of early 
cultivation; but how did it terminate? In marrying a 
little Presbyterian parson, who keeps an infant boarding- 
school, so that all her employment now is 'to suckle 
fools and chronicle small - beer !' " To which, if good 
nature permitted, it might be retorted that this same 
lady's "eariy cultivation" had not terminated even in 
her eighty -second year, when she wrote a little poem 
worth all the verse that Johnson ever produced in his 
prime. Of the poem entitled "Life," Wordsworth re- 
marked to Henry Crabb Robinson, " Well, I am not 
given to envy other people their good things ; but I do 
wish 1 had written that." But even Wordsworth, like 
Johnson, was not without a flaw of bigotry ; for in a 
letter to Mr. Dyee he says of Mrs. Barbauld: "She was 
spoiled as a poetess by being a Dissenter, and concerned 
with a Dissenting academy." Poor human prejudice! 
A memoir of .Mrs. Barbauld by her granduieee, Anna Le 
Breton, was published in Boston in 1878. 


".\Ni5ieLA, Vagl-la, Blandcla." 

Life! I hnow not what thou art, 

lint know that thou ;uid I must part; 

And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to nie's a secret yet. 
But this I know : when thou art fled, 
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, 
No clod so valueless shall be 
As all that then remains of me. 
Oh, whither, whither dost thou fly, 
Where bend unseen thy trackless course, 

And in this strange divorce. 
Ah, tell me where I must seek this compound I ? 

To the vast ocean of empyreal tlanie. 
From whence thy essence canu'. 
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 
From matter's base encumbering weed? 
Or dost thou, hid from sight. 
Wait, like some spell-hound knight. 

Through blank oblivions years the appointed hour 

To break thy trance and reassume thy power ? 

Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be ? 

Oh, saj", what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee ? 

Life! we've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear ; 
Perh;ips 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning. 
Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good-night, — but in some brighter clinui 
Bid me Good-morning. 



Oh, is there not a land 
Where the north-wind blows not ? 
Where bitter bhists are felt not? 

Oh, is there not a laud 

Between pole and pole, 
Where the" war-trumpet sounds not 

To disturb the deep serene ? — 

And can I go there 

Without or wheel or sail, — 
Without crossing ford or moor, 
Witliout climbing Alpine heights, — 

Wafted by a gentle gale? 

There is a land ; — 
And, without wind or sail, 
Fast, fast thou shalt be wafted, 
AVhich way ever blows the gale. 

Do the billows roll betweeu 1 



Jlust I cross the stormy niaiu ? — 
Green ami quiet is the spot. 

Thou neeil'st not quit the arras 
That tenderly enfold thee. 



They speak of never-withering shades, 

And bowers of opening joy ; 
They promise mines of fairy gold, 

And bliss without alloy. 

They whisper strange enchanting things 

Withiu Hope's greedy ears; 
And sure this tuneful voice exceeds 

The music of the spheres. 

They sjieak of pleasure to the gay. 

And wisdom to the wise ; 
And soothe the iioet's beating lieart 

With fame that never dies. 

To virgins languishing in love. 

They speak the niinnte nigh; 
And warm consenting hearts they join, 

And paint the rapture high. 

In every language, every tongue. 
The same kind things they say; 

In gentle slumbers speak by night, 
In waking dreams by day. 

Cassandra's fate reversed is theirs ; 
She, true, no faith could gain, — 
. They every passing hour deceive, 
Yet are believed .again. 


Great liberties liave been taken with this piece by compileri 
of hyiim-boolis. We give the author's own version. 

Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies! 

When sinks a righteotis soul to rest ; 
How mildly beam the closing eyes ! 

How gently heaves the expiring breast ! 

So fades a summer cloud aw.ay, 

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, 

So gently shuts the eye of day, 
So dies a wave along the shore. 

Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 

Fanned by some angel's purple wing; — 

Where is, O Grave! thy victory now? 
And where, insidious Death! thy sting? 

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears. 

Where light and shade alternate dwell ! 

IIow bright the unchanging morn aixp^ai's! 
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell! 

Its duty done, — as sinks the clay, 
Light from its load the spirit flies; 

While heaven and earth combine to say, 
'■Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!" 


To learn(5d Athens, led by fame. 
As once the man of Tarsus came. 

With pity and surprise, 
'Midst idol altars as he stood, 
O'er sculptured marble, brass, and wood, 

He rolled his awful eyes. 

But one, apart, his notice caught. 

That seemed with higher meaning fraught. 

Graved ou the wounded stone ; 
Nor form nor name was there expressed ; 
Deep reverence tilled the musing breast. 

Perusing, " To the God unknown !" 

Age after age has rolled away, 
Altars and thrones have felt decay, 

Sages and saints have risen ; 
And, like a giant roused from sleep, 
Man has explored the pathless deep. 

And lightnings snatched from heaven ;- 

And many a shrine in dust is laid. 
Where kneeling nations homage paid, 

I5y rock, or fount, or grove ; 
Ephesian Dian sees no more 
Her workmen fuse the silver ore, 

Nor Cajiitolian Jove; — 

E'en Salem's hallowed courts h.ave ceased 
With solemn pomi)S her tribes to feast. 

No more tlie victim bleeds ; 
To censers filled with rare jierfumes, 
And vestments from Egyptian looms, 

A purer rite succeeds : — ■ 



Yet still, Tvliere'er presumptous man 
His Makei's csseuce strives to scau, 

And lifts his feeble hands, — 
Though saiut and sage their powers unite. 
To fathom that abyss of light, 

Ah ! still that altar stands. 


Again the Lord of life and light 

Awakes the Iciudling ray ; 
Unseals the eyelids of the morn, 

And pours increasing day. 

Oh what a night was that which wrapped 

The heathen world in gloom ! 
Oh what a sun which broke this day, 

Triumphant from the tomb! 

This day be gratefnl homage paid, 

And loud liosannas snng ; 
Let gladness dwell in every heart. 

And praise on every tongue. 

Ten thousand diftering lips shall join 

To hail this welcome morn. 
Which scatters blessings from its wings. 

To nations yet unborn. 

<JII)arlcs Dibbin. 

Dibdin (1745-1814) was a native of Southampton, Eng- 
land. He was bred for the Clmrch, but took to music 
and song-writing. He appeared on the stage, but did 
not succeed as an actor. In his tlmniatie pieces and 
musical compositions, however, he bit the taste of his 
times. His sea-songs are more than a tliousand in num- 
ber, and some of them are quite spirited. His sons, 
Cliarlcs and Thomas, were also dramatists and song- 
w ritcrs, but inferior to the father. Thomas Fi'ognall 
Dibdin, tlie eminent English bibliographer, son of Cap- 
tain Tliomas Dibdin, the "Tom Bouling" of Cliarles's 
songs, was a ncpliew. Charles was improvident in his 
liahits, and died poor. 


Go patter to Inbliers and swabs, d'ye see? 

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; 
A tight water-boat and good sea-room give me, 

And it ain't to a little I'll strike. 

Though the tempest topgallant-masts smack smooth 
should smite, 

And shiver each splinter of wood, 
Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse every- 
thing tight. 

And under reefed foresail we'll send. 
Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft 

To be taken by trifles aljack ; 
For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

I heard our good chaplain iialaver one day 

About souls, heaven, mercy, and snch ; 
And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay! 

Wliy, 'twas all one to mo as High-Dutch : 
But he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see? 

Without orders tliat come down below ; 
And a mauy fine things that proved clearly to me 

That Providence takes us in tow : 
For, says he. Do you mind me, let storms e'er 
so oft 

Take the top-sails of sailors aback, 
There's a sweet little chernb that sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

I said to our Poll (for, d'ye see ? she would cry 

When last we weighed anchor for sea). 
What argufies snivelling and piping your eye? 

Why, what a [young] fool yon must be! 
Can't you see tlie world's wide, and there's room 
for us all. 

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? 
And if to Old Davy I go, my dear Poll, 

Why, you never will bear of mo more : 
What then ? all's a hazard — come, don't be so soft : 

Perhaps I nniy, laughiug, come back ; 
For, d'ye see ? there's a cherub sits smiling aliift. 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 

All as one as a piece of tlio ship. 
And with her brave the world, without oflering to 

From the moment the anchor's a-trip : 
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends. 

Naught's a trouble from duty that springs ; 
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my 

And as for my life, 'tis the King's. 
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft 

As for grief to bo taken aback ; 
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft 

Will look ont a good berth for jioor Jack! 



^Ijomas tjolcvoft. 

Holcroft (1745-1809), authoi- of the still popular come- 
dy of " The Road to Ruin," was boni in London, of very 
humble parentage. For a time he worked at his father's 
trade of a shoemaker; then he became a provincial act- 
or, and then a writer of novels. Ho seems to have found 
his forte in writing for the stage : between 1778 and 1806 
he produced more than thirty dramatic pieces. He was 
a zealous reformer, and an ardent advocate of popular 
rights. The following song is from his novel of "Hugh 


Ho ! wliy (lost tbon shiver and shake, 

GafttT Gray ? 
And Tvliy does thy nose look so blue ? 
" 'Tis the weather that's cold, 
'Tis I'm grown very old, 
And my doublet is not very new ; 
Well-a-day !" 

Tbeu line thy worn doublet with ale, 

Gaifer Gray, 
And warm thy old heart ■with a glass. 
"Nay, but credit I've none. 
And my money's all gone ; 
Tbeu say how may that come to pass ? 
Well-a-day !" 

Hie away to the house on the brow, 

Gafifer Gray, 
And knock at the jolly priest's door. 
" The priest often preaches 
Against worldly riches, 
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, 
Well-a-day !" 

The lawyer lives under the hill, 

Gafi'er Gray, 
Warmly fenced both in back and in front. 
"He will fasten his locks. 
And will threaten the stocks. 
Should he ever more find me in want, 
Well-a-day !" 

The .squire has fat beeves and brown ale, 

Gaffer Gray; 
And the season will welcome you there. 
" His fiit beeves, and bis beer. 
And his merry new year, 
Are all for the and the fair, 
Well-a-day !" 

Jly keg is but low, I confess. 

Gaffer Gray : 
What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live. 
"Ah ! the poor man alone, 
When he hears the poor moan, 
Of his morsel a morsel will give, 

Cjiannal) fUovc. 

The daughter of a school -master, Miss More (17-1.>- 
1833) was a native of Stapleton, in Gloucestershire. The 
family removed to Bristol ; and there, in her sevcnteeutli 
year, she published a pastoral drama, " The Search after 
Happiness," which passed through three editions. In 
1773 she made her entrance into London society, was 
domesticated with Garrick, and made the acquaintance 
of Johuson and Burke. In 1777 Garrick brought out 
her tragedy of "Percy" at Drury Lane, from which she 
got £750. She now wrote poems, sacred dramas, a pious 
novel, "Cffilebs in Search of a Wife," etc., till her writ- 
ings filled eleven volumes octavo. Of "Coelebs," ten 
editions were sold 16 one year. She made about £30,000 
by her writings. 


As at their work two weavers sat, 
Beguiling time with friendly chat, 
They touched upon the price of meat. 
So high a weaver scarce could eat ! 

" Wliat with my babes and sickly wife," 
Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life: 
So hard we work, so poor we fare, 
'Tis more than mortal man can bear. 

"How glorious is the rich man's state! 
His house so fine, his wealth so great! 
Heaven is unjust, you must agree : 
Why all to hira, and none to me ? 

" lu spite of what the Scripture teaches, 
In spite of all the pulpit preaches. 
This world — indeed, I've thought so loug- 
Is ruled, metbiuks, extremely wrong. 

" Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 
'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange ; 
The good are troubled and oppressed, 
And all the wicked are the blessed." 

Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause 
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws. 



Parts of his ways alone wo kuow ; 
"ris all tUat man can see below. 

'■ Seest tlion that carpet, not lialf done, 
Which tlioti, ileal' Dick, hast well begun ? 
Behold the wild confusion there! 
So rude the mass, it makes one stare ! 

'■A stranger, ignorant of the trade, 
Would sa}'. No meaning's there conveyed ; 
For Where's the middle ? where's the border ? 
Tliy carpet now is all disorder." 

Quoth Dick, "My work is yet la hits; 
But still in every part it fits : 
Besides, yon reason like a lout : 
Why, man, that carpet's inside out." 

Says John, "Tliou sayst the thing I mean. 
And now I hope to cure thy spleen : 
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt, 
Is but a carpet inside out. 

"As when we view these shreds and ends. 
We kuow not what the whole intends : 
So, wlien on earth things look but odd, 
They're working still some scheme of God. 

"No plan, no pattern, can we trace; 
All wants proportion, truth, and grace: 
The motley mixture we deride. 
Nor see the beauteous upper side. 

*■ But when we reach the world of light. 
And view these works of God aright ; 
Then shall we see the whole design. 
And own the W'orkman is Divine. 

" Wluit now seem random strokes will there 
All order and design appear ; 
Tlien shall we praise what here we spurned. 
For then the carpet will he turned." 

"Thou'rt right,'' quoth Dick; "no more I'll grumble 
That this world is so strange a jumble; 
My impious doubts are put to flight. 
For my own carpet set*nie right." 


Since trifles make the sum of human things, 
And half our misery from our foibles spriug.s, — 

Since life's best joys consist ia jieace and ease, 
And few can save or serve, but all can please, — 
Oh, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence, 
A .small uukiiulness is a great ofl'ence : 
Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain. 
But all may shun the guilt of giving paiu. 

lUUliam ijanleij. 

Ilayley (1745-1830), the biographer of Cowper, wrote 
poems very popular in their daj". His "Triumphs of 
Temper" (1781), tbouifh now forgotten, had a large sale. 
He wrote also dramatic pieces and a "Life of Milton" 
(1796). His over-strained sensibility and romantic tastes 
exposed him to ridicule, yet he was an amiable and ac- 
complished man. His life of Cowper appeared in 1803. 
The few natural and graceful lines we quote will proba- 
bly outlast all the other effusions of this once much- 
praised vcrsillcr. 


Ye gentle birds, that perch aloof. 

And smooth yonr pinions ou my roof, 

Preparing for departure hence, 

Now Winter's angry threats commence! 

Like you, my soul would smooth her plume 

For longer flights beyond the tomb. 

May God, by whom are seen and heard 
Departing men and wandering bird, 
In mercy mark us for his own, 
And guide us to the laud unknown ! 

l^cftor fllacncil. 

A native of Scotland, Macneil (174G-181S) was brought 
up to a mercantile life, bat did not succeed in it. He 
wrote a tale in verse, depicting the evils of intemper- 
ance; also several Scottisli lyrics. The latter years of 
his life were spent in comfort at Ediuburgli. 


"Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, 
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea f 

Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming ? 
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw- 

Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-wbite, 
Dark is the blue of her soft-rolling ee ; 



Kffi, red her ripe lips, ami sweeter than roses — 
Where could luy wee thiug wauder frae me ?"' 

" I saw nae your wee thing, I saw uae your aiu 

Nor saw I yonr true love dowu on you lea ; 
But I met mj' bonuio thiug late in the gloamiu', 

Down hy the buruie where flowers the haw-tree : 
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk- 

Dark was the hluo o' her soft-rolling e'c ; 
Red wore her ri[>e lips, and sweeter than roses — 

Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me." 

"It was uae my wee thing, it was uae my aiu 

It was uae my true love ye met by the tree : 
Proud is her leal heart, modest her uature ; 

She ucver lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me. 
Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary; 

Aft lias she sat, wlien a bairn, on my knee. 
Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer. 

Young luagger, she ue'er wad gie kisses to thee." 

"It was, then, your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary; 

It was, then, your true love I met by the tree. 
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, 

Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me." — 
Sair gloomed Ids dark brow, blood-red his cheek 

Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e : 
"Ye's rue sair this morniug, your boasts and yonr 
scorning : 

Defend ye, fanse traitor! fu' loudly ye lee!" 

"Awa' wi' beguiling!" cried the j'onth, smiling — 

Aff went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee ; 
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing. 

Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. 
"Is it my weo thing, is it my aiu thing, 

Is it my true love here that I see ?" 
" O .Jamie, forgi'e me ! your heart's constant to me : 

I'll never mair wauder, dear laddie, frae thee." 

ftticljacl Bnirc. 

Bruce (1746-1707) was the son of a humble Scottish 
weaver, and a uative of the county of Kinross. He stud- 
ied at the University of Edinburgh, and was soon distin- 
guished for his poetical productions. He kept school 
awhile, but was attacked by a pulmonary complaint, and 
died before he was twenty-two j'cars old. His poems 

bear the marks of immaturity, and the resemblances in 
tbcm to otiicr poets are close and frequent. With death 
full in his view he wrote his "Elegy," the best of all his 
productions. It extends to twenty-two stanzas, of which 
we quote the choicest. After his death his Bible was 
found upon his pillow, marked down at Jcr. xxii. 10 : 
"Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him." His 
poems were first given to the world by his college friend, 
John Logan, in 1770. In 1S37 a complete edition was 
brought out. 


Now Spring returns ; but not to me returns 
The verual joy my better years have known : 

Dim iu my breast life's dying taper burns. 
And all the joys of life with health are flown. 

Starting and shivering in th' inconstant wind. 
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, 

Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined. 

And count the silent moments as they pass, — 

The winged moments ! whoso unstaying speed 
No art can stop, or iu their course arrest ; 

Whose flight shall shortly couut mo with tlie dead. 
And lay me down iu peace with them that rest. 

Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate ; 

And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true: 
Led by i>ale ghosts, I cuter Death's dark gate. 

And bid the realms of light aud iife adieu. 

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe ; 

I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore. 
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, 

Which mortals visit, and return no more. 

Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! 

Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mouud, 
Where melancholy with still silence reigns. 

And the rank grass \\aves o'er the cheerless 

There let me wauder at the shut of eve, 
Wheu sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes ; 

The world and all its busy follies leave. 

And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. 

There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, 

When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes ' 

Rest iu the hopes of an eternal day. 

Till the loug night is gone, and the last morn 



Sir lUilliam 3oncG. 

The son of an eminent Loiulon niutliematician, Jones 
(IT-MJ-ITM) studied at Harrow, and tlien at Oxford, where 
lie devoted much time to tlie Oriental languages. In 
1772 he published a volume of poems, mostly transla- 
tions. In 177-1 he was called to the Bar. Though op- 
posed to the American war and the slave-trade, he was 
knighted in 1783, and appointed a judge of the Supreme 
Court at Fort William, in Bengal. He married the daugh- 
ter of Dr. Shiplc}-, bishop of St. Asaph ; and in his thirty- 
seventh year embarked for India, never to return. He 
performed his judicial functions with the utmost fideli- 
ty, but he overstrained his brain by intense study; and 
in 1784 his health began to fail. His attainments in the 
languages were various and profound. He might have 
won a conspicuous place among the poets, had he not 
been absorbed in philological pursuits. "The activity of 
my mind is too strong for my constitution," he writes. 
He died at the age of forty-eight, beloved as few have 
been, and leaving a character for unalloyed goodness, 
such as few have left. A collected edition of his writ- 
ings was published in 1799, and again in 1807, with a 
"Life". of the author by Lord Teignmouth. 


Sweet juaid, if thou wouklst charm my sight, 

Anil bid these arms tby neck enfold, 

That rosy cheek, that lily hand 

Would give thy poet more delight 

Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold, 

Thau all the gems of Saraarcaud ! 

Boy, let yon liquid rnliy flow, 
And bid thy pensive heart be glad, 
Whate'er the frowning zealots say: 
Tell them their Eden cannot .show 
A stream so clear as Eoenabad, 
A bower So sweet as Mosellay. 

Oil ! when these fair, perfidious maids. 
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, 
Thi>ir dear destructive charms display. 
Each glance vay tender breast invades. 
And robs my wounded soul of rest, 
As Tartars seize their destined prey. 

Speak not of fate: ah, change the theme, 

And talk of odors, talk of wine, 

Talk (if the flowers that round us bloom : 

'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream ; 

To love and joy thy thoughts conliiie. 

Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. 

But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear 
(Youth should attend when those advise 
Whom long experience renders sage) : 
While music charms the ravished ear, 
While sparkling cups delight our eyes. 
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age. 

What cruel aiisw er have I heard ? 

And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still : 

Can aught be cruel from thy lip ? 

Yet say, how fell that bitter word 

From lips which streams of sweetness fill. 

Which naught but drojis of honey sip ' 

Go boldly forth, my simple lay, 

Whose accents flow with artless ease, 

Like orient pearls at random strung! 

Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say ; 

But oh, far sweeter, if they please 

The nymph for whom these notes are suiii; 


From the PEnsi.iN. 

On parent knees, a naked new-born child. 
Weeping thou sat'st, while all around thee smiled : 
So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep, 
Calm thou mayst smile while all :iround thee weep. 


What constitutes a state ? 
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound. 

Thick wall or moated gate; 
Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crowned ; 

Not bays aud broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not starred and spangled courts. 
Where low-browed baseness wafts iierfume to pride. 

No : — Men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den. 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; 

Men, who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and knowing, dare maiiitaiii, 

Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : 

These constitute a state ; 
Aud sovereign Law, that state's collected w ill, 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill : 



Suiit by her sacred frown, 
I'lii! fieud, Discretion, like a vapor siuks ; 

And i''i>ii the all-dazzliug Crowu 
Hides his faiut rays, aud at her bidding shrinks. 

Siicli was this Heaven-loved isle, 
Than Lesbos fairer, aud the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall Freedom smile ? 
Shall Britous languish, aud be men uo more ? 

Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'Tis folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

JJoljii (D'Kccfc. 

O'Keefe (1746-1833) was a native of Dublin. He at- 
tempted the stage, but subsequently devoted himself to 
dramatic composition. His latter days were embittered 
by blinducss and pecuniary destitution, but he reached 
the advanced age of eighty-six. Some of his grotesque 
pieces still keep possession of the stage. His poems 
were published as a "legacy to his daughters" in 1834. 
The "Recollections of the Life of John O'Keefe, writ- 
ten by Himself," appeared in 1S2G; his collected dramas, 
in 1798. 


I am a friar of orders gray, 
And down the valleys I take my way ; 
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip — 
Good store of venison tills my scrip ; 
My long bead-roll I merrily chant ; 
Where'er I walk no money I want ; 
And why I'm so plump the reason I tell — 
AVho leads a good life is sure to live well. 
What baron or squire, 
Or knight of the shire. 
Lives half so well as a holy friar? 

After supper, of heaven I dream. 

But that is pullet aud clouted cream ; 

Myself, by denial, I mortify — 

With a dainty bit of a warden-pie ; 

I'm clothed iu sackcloth for my sin — 

With old sack wine I'm liued within ; 

A chirping cup is my matin song. 

And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding-dong. 

What baron or squire. 

Or knight of tlic shire, 
Lives half so well as a holy friar ? 

Susanna Blamirc. 

A native of Cumberland, England, Miss Blaniire (1747- 
1794) resided some years with a married sister in Perth- 
shire, Scotland, and wrote Scottish songs like a native. 
Her poetical works were published, with a biography by 
Patrick Maxwell, in 1843. 


"And ye shall walk in silk attire, 

And siller hae to spare. 
Gin ye'll consent to be bis bride, 

Nor think o' Donald mair." 
" Oh, wha wad buy a silken gouu 

Wi' a puir broken heart 1 
Or what's to me a siller croiin, 

Giu frae my love I part ? 

" The mind whose every wish is pure, 

Far dearer is to me : 
And ere I'm forced to break my faith, 

I'll lay me doun an' dee. 
For I hae pledged my virgin troth 

Brave Donald's fate to share ; 
And he has gi'en to me his heart, 

Wi' a' its virtues rare. 

" His gentle manners wan my heart, 

He gratefu' took the gift ; 
Could I but think to seek it back, 

It wad be waur than theft. 
The langest life cau ne'er repay 

The love ho bears to me ; 
Aud ere I'm forced to break my troth, 

I'll lay me doun an' dee." 

loljn £ogan. 

Logan (1748-1788) was the sou of a Scottish farmer in 
Mid -Lothian. He became a minister — alienated his 
parishioners l>y writing plays and committing some un- 
clerical irregularities — went to London, and wrote for 
the English Hevkw. He published a volume of sermons, 
characterized by Chambers as "full of piety and fervor" 
His little poem of "The Cuckoo" is the slender thread 
by winch he is still connected with the recognized poets 
of Britain. Burke admired it so much that, on visiting 
Edinburgh, he sought out Logan to compliment him. 
For a while Logan was thought to have pilfered " The 
Cuckoo" from Michael Bruce; but this charge, as we 
learn from Cliambers, was disproved in 1873 by David 
Laing iu a tract on the authorship, aud Logan's claim 
was made good. The iuterual evidence is iu his favor. 



There is iiotliing in all that Bruce wrote that is suffffcs- 
tive of the ode ; though Trench (1870) favors his claim. 
The ode was a favorite with Wordswortli. 


Hail, beauteons stranger of the grove, 

Thou messenger of Spring! 
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thj' welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear ; 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the lolliug year ? 

Delightful visitant! with tliee 

I hail the time of tlowcrs. 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The sthool-l)oy, wandering through the w ood, 

To iniU the primrose gay. 
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom 

Thoii fliest thy vocal vale, 
An annual gnest in other lands, 

Another Spriug to hail. 

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou Iiast no sorrow in thy song. 

No Winter in thy year ! 

Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing, 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the Spriug. 


Thy braes were honuie. Yarrow stream. 

When tirst ou them I met my lover ; 
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, 

When now thy waves his body cover! 
Forever now, O Yarrow stream. 

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
For never ou thy hanks shall I 

Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow ! 

He promised me a milk-white steed. 

To hear me to his father's bowers ; 
He promised me a little page. 

To squire me to his father's towers. 
He promised mo a wedding-ring, — 

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow : 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 

Alas ! his watery grave in Yarrow ! 

Sweet were his words when last we met; 

My passion I as freely told him : 
Clasped iu his arms, I little thought 

That I should never more behold him ! 
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost — 

It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend. 

And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow ! 

His mother from the window looked. 

With all the longing of a mother ; 
His little sister weeping walked 

The greenwood path to meet her brother: 
They sought him east, they sought him west, 

They sought him all the forest thorough : 
They only saw the cloud of night. 

They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 

No longer from thy window look — 

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid — 

Alas ! thou hast no more a brother ! 
No longer seek him east or west, 

And search no more the forest thorough ; 
For, wandering in the night so dark. 

He fell a lifeless corpse iu Yarrow. 

The tear shall never leave my cheek, 

No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
I'll seek thy body iu the stream. 

And then, with thee I'll sleep iu Yarrow! 
The tear did never leave her cheek. 

No other youth became her marrow ; 
She found his body iu the stream, 

Aud now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 

fllrs. (Uljarlottc ((Eurncr) SmitI). 

Daughter of Nicholas Turner, of Stoke House, Surrey, 
Charlotte (1T4'J-1S06) married early and disastrously. 
Mr. Smith was the dissipated son of a West India mer- 
chant, and soon found his way into prison, where she 
spent seven mouths with him. She suffered poverty, 



wrote for bvcad, parted fi-om hei- husband, worked for 
her fiiraily, and saw all her children die as they came to 
niaturitj'. Her poetry is of the sentimental type. Of 
her sonnets Coleridge had a grateful recollection. Her 
prose won praises from Hayley, Cowper, and Sir Walter 


Nymph of tlie rock! whose dauntless spirit hraves 
The beating storm, and bitter winds that ho\Yl 
Kound thy cohl breast, and hear'st the bursting 

And the deep thunder with unshakeu soul! 
Oh come, and show how vaiu the cares that press 
On my weak bosom, and how little worth 
Is the false, fleeting meteor, Happiness, 
That still misleads the wiiuderers of the earth! 
Strengthened by thee, this heart shall cease to melt 
O'er ills that poor Humanity must bear ; 
Nor frieuds estranged or ties dissolved be felt 
To leave regret and fruitless anguish there : 
And when at length it heaves its latest sigh. 
Then and mild Hope shall teach me how to die ! 


Go now, iugeunons youth ! — The trying hour 

Is come : the world demands that thou shouldst go 

To active life. There titles, wealth, and power 

May all be purchased ; yet I joy to know 

Thou wilt not pay their price. The base control 

Of petty despots in their pedant reign 

Already hast thou felt ; and high disdain 

Of tyrants is imprinted on thy soul. 

Not where mistaken Glory iu the field 

Rears her red banner be thou ever found ; 

But against proud Oppression raise the .shield 

Of patriot daring. So shalt thou renowned 

For the best virtues live ; or, that denied, 

Mayst die, as Hampden or as Sidney died ! 


Little inmate, full of mirth, 
Chirping on my humble hearth, — 
Wheresoo'er be thine abode. 
Always hai'binger of good, — 
Pay me for thy warm retreat 
With a song most soft and sweet : 
In return thou shalt receive 
Such a song as I can give. 

Though in voice and shape they be 
Formed as if akiu to thee. 
Thou surpassest, happier far, 
Happiest grasshoppers that are : 
Theirs is but a summer-song ; 
Thine endures the winter long. 
Unimpaired, and .shrill, and clear, 
Melody throughout the year. 

Neither night nor dawn of day 
Puts a jieriod to thy lay : 
Then, insect, let thy simple song 
Cheer the winter evening long ; 
While, secure from every storm, 
In my cottage stout and warm. 
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be. 
And I delight to shelter thee. 

Hobcrl ^ntljain. 

Graham of Gartmore, Scotland, born 17.50; died 
1797. The song we quote was first published in the 
"Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border" (ISOl). At one 
time Scott attributed it to James Graham, Marquis of 
Montrose. It was evidently suggested by the poem of 
his given on page 103 in this collection. 


If donghty deeds my lady please, 

Right soon I'll mount my steed ; 
And strong his arm, and fast his scat, 

That bears frae mo the meed. 
I'll wear thy colors in my cap. 

Thy picture in my heart ; 
And he that bends not to thiue eye 
Shall rue it to his smart. 

Then tell me how to woo thee, love ; 

Oh, tell me how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
Though ne'er another trow me. 

If g.ay attire delight thiue eye, 

I'll dight me in array ; 
I'll tend thy chamber-door all night, 

And squire thee all the day. 
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear. 

These sounds I'll strive to catch ; 
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel' — 

That voice that none can match. 

Then tell me how to woo thee, love, etc. 



But if fouil lovo tliy Leart cau gain, 

I never broke a vow ; 
Nae maiden lays her skaitli to nie ; 

I never loved but yon. 
For you alone I ride the ring, 

For you I wear the blue; 
For you alone I strive to siug^ 

Oil, tell me bow to woo ! 

Then tell me bow to woo tbec, love, etc. 

Cttbj) ^nnc (Cinbsaijj Uarnarb. 

Lady Anne Barnaril, daughter of James Lindsay, Earl 
of Balcanes, was born 1750, married Andrew Barnard in 
1793, and died without issue in 182.5. She wrote the fa- 
mous and pathetic ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" about 
tlie year 1771, but kept the autliorsbip a secret till 1823, 
when, in her seventy-third year, she acknowledged it in 
a letter to Sir Walter Scott, in which she writes that she 
does not comprehend bow be guessed the authorship, 
"as there was no person alive to whom she bad told 
it." At the request of her mother, who often asked 
"bow that unlucky business of Jeanio and Jamie end- 
ed," she wrote a continuation; but, like most continua- 
tions, though ingeniously done, it is a mere excrescence 
upon the original. Frequent alterations in the te.xt 
seem to have been made, cither by the author or by un- 
authorized bands. 


When tbe .sbeep are in the faukl, and the kye's come 

And a' tbe weary warld to rest arc gane, 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my c'e, 
Unkent by my gude-man,wha sleeps sound by me. 

Young Jamio lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his 

bride ; 
But, saving ao crown, be had nactbing else beside : 
To make tbe crown a pound my .Tamie gaed to sea, 
And tbe crowu and the pound they were baith 

for me. 

He hadna been ganc a twelvemonth and a day, 
When my father brak his arm, and the cow was 

stown away ; 
My mitber she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea — 
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtiug me. 

My father conldna work, my mitbor couldua spin ; 
I toiled day and nigbt, but their bread I couldna 
win ; 

Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in 

his e'e. 
Said, '•' Jeanic, for their sakes, will ye no marry me ?" 

My heart it said nay, and I looked for Jamie back; 
But hard blew tbe winds, and his ship was a 

■wrack : 
His ship was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee f 
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ? 

My father urged me sair: my mither didna speak: 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like 

to break. 
They gied him my baud, but my heart was in tbe 

sea ; 
And so Robin Gray he was gude-man to me. 

I hadna been his wife a week but only four, 
When monrufu' as I sat on the staue at my door, 
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he, 
Till he said, "I'm come bame, love, to marry thee!"' 

Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a'; 
I gied him ae kiss, and I bade him gang awa'; — 
I wish that I were dead, but I'm nae like to dee: 
For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae 
is me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin ; 
I dareua think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
But I'll do ray best a gude wife aye to be, 
For oh ! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 

3ol]u ylrumbull. 


Trumbull (1750-1831), author of "M'Flngal," a bur- 
lesque poem in the style of Butler's "Hudibras," was 
a native of Watcrtown, Conn. He entered Yale College 
at the age of thirteen, and afterward read law in the ot- 
flce of John Adams, in Boston. In 1774 be bei;an the 
composition of "M'Fingal,"a poem quite popular in 
its day, but now little read, though manifesting consider- 
able ability. M'Flngal is a type of the American Tories 
who held out for a monarchy. Honorius is the Whig 
champion of freedom. _Wben the last battle of the Rev- 
olution has been fought, and Toryism is bumbled, M'Fin- 
gal escapes out of a window <■» route to Boston, and the 
poem is closed. Trumbull wrote "The Progress of Dul- 
ness," a satirical poem, also "An Elegy on the Times." 
In 1825 he moved to Detroit, where he died. An edition 
of his works was published in Hartford in 1820. The 
latest cditiou of "M'Fingal," with notes by J. B. Los- 
sing, was published by G. P. Putnam, New York, 1857. 




^ » ^ * * • 

■\Vlieu Yankees, skilled in martial rule, 
First put the British troops to school ; 
Instructed them ia warlike trade, 
And new manoeuvres of parade ; 
The true war-dance of Yankee reels, 
And manual exercise of heels ; 
Made them give up, like saints complete, 
Tlie arm of flesh and trust the feet. 
And work, like Christians uudissembling, 
Salvation out by fear and trembling. 
Taught Percy fashionable races, 
And modern modes of Chevy-chases, — ■ 
From Boston, in his best array. 
Great Squire M'Fingal took his way, 
And, graced with ensigns of renown, 
Steered homeward to his native town. 

j^ * * * « ■ # 

Nor only saw ho all that was, 
But nnich that never came to pass; 
AVhereby all prophets far outwent he ; 
Though former days produced a plenty ; 
For any man, with half an eye, 
^Vhat stands before him may espy; 
But optics sharp it needs, I ween. 
To see what is not to be seen. 
As in the days of ancient fame 
Prophets and poets were the same. 
And all the praise that poets gain 
Is but for what they invent and feign. 
So gained our squire his fame by seeing 
Such things as never would have being. 

But, as some muskets so contrive it 
As oft to miss the mark they drive at. 
And though well aimed at duck or jilover. 
Bear wide and kick tlieir owners over, 
So fared our squire, whose reasoning toil 
Would often on himself recoil. 
And so much injured more his side. 
The stronger arguments ho applied ; 
As old war elephants, dismayed, 
Trode down the troops they came to aid. 
And hurt their own side more in battle 
Than less and ordinary cattle. 

All punishments the world can render 
Serve only to provoke the oft'euder ; 
The will's confirmed by treatment horrid. 
As hides grow harder when they're curried. 

No man e'er felt the lialter draw, 
With good opinion of the law ; 
Or held in method orthodox 
His love of justice in the stocks; 
Or failed to lose, by sheritf's shears, 
At once his loj-alty and cars. 

Hirljavli Brinslcn Sljcriban. 

Sheridan (1751-1816), son of Thomas Sheridan, the lex- 
icoirraiiher and actor, was born in Dublin, and educated 
at Harrow. The most brilliant dramatic writer of his 
times, he has given but faint evideuces of the poetical 
gift. As a parliamentary orator he won high distinction. 
His comedies are the best in the language. Improvident 
and extrav.igant in his way of living, be died in great pe- 
cuniary humiliation, notwithstanding the admiration he 
had excited by his powers as a dramatist and orator. 


Feom "The Duenna." 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne'er could injure you ; 
For though your tongue no promise claimed. 

Your charms would make me true : 
To you no soul shall bear deceit, 

No stranger offer wrong ; 
But friends iu all the aged you'll meet. 

And lovers iu the young. 

For when they learn that you have blessed 

Another with your heart, 
They'll bid aspiring passion rest, 

And act a brother's part. 
Tlieii, lady, dread not here deceit, 

Nor fear to suffer wrong ; 
For friends iu all the aged you'll meet, 

And brothers in the young. 


From " The Duenna." 

I ne'er could any lustre see 

Iu eyes that would not look on me ; 

I ne'er saw nectar ou a lip. 

But where my own did hope to sip. 

Has the maid who seeks my heart 

Cheeks of rose, untouched by art ? 

I will own the color true. 

When yielding blushes aid their hue. 



Is ber hand so soft and pure ? 
I must press it, to be sure ; 
Nor can I be certain then, 
Till it, grateful, press agaiu. 
Must I, with attentive eye. 
Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? 
I will do so when I see 
That heaviug bosom sigh for me. 

Gt. (5corac tucker. 

Tucker (1T53-1S27) was born in Bermuda, and edu- 
cated in Virgini[i, at William and Mary College. He 
was the stepfather of John Randolph of Roanoke, and 
was known chietly as a jurist. 


Days of my youth, ye have glided away; 
Hairs of my youth, ye arc frosted and gray; 
Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more ; 
Cheeks of my youth, ye arc furrowed all o'er; 
Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone ; 
Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown. 

Days of my yonth, I wish not your recall ; 
Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall ; 
Eyes of my youth, ye much evil have seen ; 
Cheeks of my yonth, bathed in tears have you been ; 
Thoughts of my youth, ye have led me astray; 
Strength of my youth, why lament youx- decay? 

D.ays of my age, ye will .shortly be past ; 
Pains of my age, yet awhile ye can last; 
Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight ; 
Eyes of my age, be religion your light ; 
Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod; 
Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God. 

olljomas cL'l)attcrto;i. 

Cliattertou (1752-1770), of whom Wordsworth speaks 
as " the marvellous boy, the sleepless soul, that perished 
in his pride," a native of Bristol, and the son of a 
school-master, who was also sexton of St. Mary Rcdclifl'e 
Church, and who died three months before Thomas w;is 
born. The lad, when five years old, was placed at school 
under a Mr. Love, who scut him home as dull and inca- 
pable of instruction. At six he taught himself his kt- 
ters from the illuminated capitals of an old French MS. 
He learned to read from a lilack-letter Bible. In 1700 

he was admitted into Colston's school, Bristol, where he 
continued seven years. During that period he composed 
several of his minor poems. His passion for books was 
the wonder of all w lio knew him. In 1767, when four- 
teen, he was apprenticed to a scrivener. He now set 
himself to accomplish a series of impositions by pretend- 
ed discoveries of old m.annseripts. He claimed to hiive 
come of a family of hereditary sextons of Redclilfe 
Church, where, in an old chest, these MSS. had been 
found; and he employed his undeniable aud wonderfully 
precocious genius in manufacturing mock ancient po- 
ems, which lie ascribed to an old monk of Bristol, whom 
he called Thomas Rowley, and placed in the times of 
Lydgate. His impositions duped many of the citizens 
of Bristol ; but Gray, Mason, Slieridan, Gibbon, Johnson, 
and Bishop Percy pronounced his pretended discoveries 
to be forgeries. Indeed, a close examination of the dic- 
tion ought to have made this apparent to any good Eng- 
lish scholar. 

In 1770 the boy of seventeen went up to London to 
write for bread and fame. At first he received engage- 
ments from various booksellers with whom he had be- 
fore corresponded. His restless brain was full of schemes, 
and he wrote home, "I am settled, and in such a settle- 
ment as I can desire. What a glorious prospect I" His 
poetry was much of it of a political and satirical charac- 
ter. He took lodgings in a garret in the house of Mrs. 
Angel, in llolborn. From thence this friendless boy in- 
dited letters to his mother and sister, and scut small 
presents to them, to comfort them with tlie thought 
tlial lie was doing well, and to show them his love. He 
would live on a crust of bread and a dried sheep' s-tongue, 
in order to buy something from his poor earnings to 
send home. 

But his poverty at last became extreme, and his pride 
was as great as liis poverty. His sister became insane ; 
and probably there was a taint of ins.anity in his own 
organization. The baker's wife refused to supply him 
with any more bread until he had paid<he 3.<. B((. already 
owing. This drove him to his gari'ct in a storm of pas- 
sion. He made a final attemiit to get employment, but 
it was unavailing. Returning home, he pureliased some 
aisenic. Tliat evening he spent bending over the lire in 
Mrs. Angel's parlor, muttering poetry to himself, until 
at last, taking his caudle, and having kissed Mis. Angel, 
he wished lier good-night, and retired to his garret. The 
following morning his lifeless body was discovered lying 
oil his bed ; the floor covered witli slireds of papers. " I 
leave my soul to its Maker," lie wrote, " my body to my 
mother and sister, and my curee to Bristol." Bristol 
has nevertheless raised a monnment to his memory. 
Campbell says of Cliattertou : "Tasso alone can be com- 
pared to him as a juvenile prodigy. No English poet 
ever equalled him at the same age." At the time of his 
death he was aged seventeen veal's, nine mouths, and a 
few days. 

The arbitrary orthography, in rude imitation of the an- 
cient, used by Cliattertou, being a mere atlectation, we 
dismiss it from our few specimens of his writings. The 
diction is obviously modem, and there is no longer any 
reason for ret;iiiiing what was only designed as a means 
of supporting an imposture. 

Archbishop Trench has shown that the whole fabric 



of Cli;ittcrtoirs literary fraud could have been blown up 
by calling attention to his use of the word its. This 
word did not Hnd its way into tbe language until two 
liundrcd years after tlic period of Cbattcrton's monk, 
Rowley. It occui-s only once in our translation of the 
Scriptures (Levit. xxv. 5), and only three times in Shak- 
epeare. Even Milton, describing Satan, says 
"His ft)rm had not yet lost 
All her original brightness." 

Evidently Chatterton was ignorant of these facts, and 
his use of its is alone sufficient to stamp his pretended 
antUjtux as spurious. 

"Tbe poems of Chatterton," says Sir Walter Scott, 
"may be divided into two grand classes: those ascribed 
to Rowley, and those which the bard of Bristol avowed 
to be his own composition. Of these classes, the former 
is incalculably superior to the latter in poetical power 
and diction." 

Of tbe Rowley poems the principal are : "The Trage- 
dy of Ella," "The Execution of Sir Charles Bawdin," 
"Ode to Ella," "Tlie Battle of Hastings," "The Tour- 
nament," "A Description of Cannynge"s Feast," and 
one or two dialogues. An animated controversy as to 
their authenticity sprang up and raged for a long time. 
Some of the political poems acknowledged by Cliatter- 
ton show remarkable maturity and fi'ccdom of style, and 
indicate powers akin to those of Swift and Dryden. But 
his imitations of tbe antique are superior to all his other 
attempts. He has been compared to the mocking-bird, 
whose note of mimicry is sweeter than its natural song. 


The feathered songster cliauticleer 

Had wound his bnglc-born, 
And told tbe early villager 

The coming of the moru : 

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks 

Of light eclipse the gray ; 
And heard the raven's croaking throat 

Proclaim the fated day. 

" Thoii'rt right," <inoth he ; " for, by the God 

That sits enthroned ou high ! 
Charles Buwdiu, and his fellows twain, 

To-day shall surely die." 

Then with a jug of nappy ale 
His knights did on him wait ; 

" Go tell the traitor that to-day- 
He leaves this mortal state." 

Sir C'auterlone then bended low, 

With heart brimful of woe ; 
He journeyed to the castle-gate, 

And to Sir Charles did go. 

But when bo came, bis children twain, 

And eke his loving wife. 
With briny tears did wet the floor, 

For good Sir Charles's life. 

" Oh, good Sir Charles !" said Cauterlone, 

" Bad tidings do I bring." 
" Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir CJiarles ; 

" What says thy traitor-king V '^ 

" I grieve to tell : before you sun 

Does from the welkin fly. 
He hath upon bis honor sworn 

That thou shalt surely die." 

"We all must die," qnoth brave Sir Charles; 

" Of that I'm not alTeared ; 
What boots to live a little space ? 

Thank Jesn, I'm prepared : 

'• But tell thy king, for mine he's not, 

I'd sooner die to-day, 
Than live his slave, as many are. 

Though I should live for aye." 

Then Canterlone he did go out, 

To tell the mayor strait 
To get all things iu readiness 

For good Sir Charles's fate. 

Then Master Canyng sought the king, 

And fell down on his knee ; 
" I'm come," quoth he, " unto your grace, 

To move your clemency." 

'"Then," qnoth the king, "your tale speak out, 
You have been much our frieud : 

Whatever yonr request may be, 
We will to it atteud." 

" My noble liege ! all my request 

Is for a noble knight. 
Who, though mayhap he lias done wrong. 

He thought it still was right : 

" He bas a and children twain ; 

All mined are for aye, 
If that you are resolved to let 

Charles Bawdin die to-day." 

" Speak not of such a traitor vile," 

The king in fury said ; 
" Before the evening-star doth shine, 

Bawdin shall lose his head : 



" Justice does loudly for him call, 

Aud be shall have his meed : 
Speak, Master Canyng ! what thing else 

At present do you ueed ?" 

"My noble liege!" good Canyng said, 

"Leave justice to our God, 
And lay the iron rule aside ; 

Be thine the olive rod. 

" Was God to search our hearts and reins, 

The best were sinners great ; 
Christ's vicar only knows no sin, 

In all this mortal state. 

"Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 
'Twill fast thy crown full sure ; 

From race to race thy family 
All sovereigns shall endure : 

" But if with blood and slaughter thou 

Begin thy infant reign, 
Tby crowu upon thy children's brows 

Will never long remain." 

" Canyng, away ! this traitor vile 
Has scorned my power and nie ; 

How canst thou then for such a man 
Entreat my clemency f 

" My noble liege ! the truly brave 

Will valorous actions prize, 
Respect a brave and noble mind. 

Although in enemies." 

" Canyng, away ! By God in heaven, 

Tliat did nie being give, 
I will not taste a bit of bread 

While this Sir Charles doth live. 

" By Mary, and all saints in heaven. 

This sun shall be his last." 
Then Canyng dropped a briny tear. 

And from the presence iiassed. 

With heart brimful of gnawing grief, 

He to Sir Charles did go. 
And sat him down upon a stool, 

And tears began to flow. 

"We .all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles; 

" What boots it how or when ? 
Death is the sure, the certain fate 

Of all we mortal men. 

" Say why, my friend, tby honest soul 

Runs over at thine eye ; 
Is it for my most welcome doom 

That thou dost childlike cry?" 

Quoth godly Canyng, " I do weep 

That thou so soon must die. 
And leave thy sous and helpless wife ; 

'Tis this that wets mine eye." 

" Then dry the tears that out thine eye 

From godly fountains spring; 
Death I despise, aud all the power 

Of Kdward, traitor-Uing. 

" When through the tyrant's welcome means 

I shall resign my life. 
The God I serve will soon provide 

For both my sons and wife. 

"Before I saw tlie lightsome sun. 

This was appointed me ; 
Shall mortal man repine or grudge 

Wliat God ordains to be ? 

"How oft in battle have I stood. 

When thousands died around ; 
Wlien smoking streams of crimson blood 

Imbrued the fattened ground : 

" How did I know that every dart. 

That cut the airy way, 
Might not find passage to my heart, 

And close mine eyes for aye ? 

"And shall I now, for fear of death. 

Look wan, and bo dismayed ? 
No ! from my heart fly childish fear ; 

Be all the man displaj'ed. 

"Ah, godlike Houry ! God forefend, 

And guard thee and thy son, 
If 'tis his will ; but if 'tis not. 

Why then his will bo done. 

"My honest friend, my fault has been 

To serve God and my prince ; 
And that I no time-server am, 

My death will soon convince. 

" In London city was I born, 

Of parents of great note ; 
My fatlier did a noble arms 

Emblazon on his coat : 



■■ I make no iloubt but he is gone, 

Where soou I hope to go ; 
Where we forever shall bo blessed, 

From out the reach of woe. 

" He taught me justice and the laws 

With pity to unite ; 
And eke he taught me how to know 

The wrong cause from the right : 

'■ He taught me with a prudent hand 

To feed the hungry poor. 
Nor let my servants drive away 

The hungry from my door : 

'■And none can say but all my life 

I have his wordis kept ; 
And summed the actious of the day 

Each night before I slei)t. 

" I have a spouse ; go ask of her 

If I defiled her bed : 
I have a king, and none can lay 

Black treason on my head. 

'■ In Lent, and on the holy eve, 

From fiesh I did refrain ; 
Why should I then appear dismayed 

To leave this world of pain ? 

'■ No, hapless Henry ! I rejoice 

I shall not see thy death ; 
Most willingly in thy just cause 

Do I resign my breath. 

" Oh, fickle people! ruined land! 

Thou wilt know peace no moe ; 
While Richard's sons exalt themselves, 

Thy brooks with blood will flow. 

'• Say, were ye tired of godly peace. 

And godly Henry's reign, 
That you did chop your easy days 

For those of blood and pain ? 

'• What though I on a sled be drawn. 

And mangled by a hind, 
I do defy the traitor's power. 

He cannot harm mj' mind : 

"What though, uphoisted on a pole, 

My limbs shall rot in air, 
And no rich monument of brass 

Charles Bawdin's name shall hear ; 

" Yet in the holy Book above. 

Which time can't eat away. 
There with the servants of the Lord 

My name shall live for aye. 

" Then welcome, death ! for life eterue 

I leave this mortal life : 
Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear. 

My sons and loving wife ! 

" Now death as welcome to me comes 

As e'er the month of May ; 
Nor would I even wish to live. 

With my dear wife to stay." 

Quoth Canyng, " 'Tis a goodly thing 

To be prepared to die ; 
And from this world of pain and grief 

To God in hea\cn to fly." 

And now the bell began to toll. 

And clarions to sound ; 
Sir Charles he heaixl the horses' feet 

A-prancing on the ground : 

And just before the officers 

His loving wife came in, 
W^eeping iinfeign<?d tears of woe. 

With loud and dismal din. 

" Sweet Florence ! now, I pray, forbear. 

In quiet let me die ; 
Pray God that every Christian soul 

May look on death as I. 

" Sweet Florence ! why these briny tears ? 

They wash my soul away. 
And almost make mo wish for life, 

With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 

" 'Tis but a journey I shall go 

Unto the land of bliss ; 
Now, as a proof of husband's love. 

Receive this holy kiss." 

Tlien Florence, faltering in her say, 

Trembling these wordis spoke, 
"Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! 

Sly heart is well-nigh broke : 

"Ah, sweet Sir Charles ! why wilt thou go 

Without thy loving wife? 
The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, 

It eke shall end my life." 



And now tlie officers came iu 

To l)ring Sir Charles away, 
Wlio turuf^d to bis loving wife, 

And tbus to her did say : 

"I go to life, and not to death; 

Trust thou iu God above, 
And teach thy sons to fear the Loid, 

And iu their hearts him love: 

" Teach them to run the noble race 

That I, their father, run ; 
Floreuee !